Fragile
by gemstone1234
Summary: Sherlock gets sick, not 'he'll recover in a few days' sick but hospitalised for a long time sick. His friends are all there to help him but he is Sherlock, he doesn't want or need their help. Rated T just to be safe. This involves all of the recurring characters, there just wasn't room for them all in the 'characters' section.
1. I'm fine

_I received a prompt from Anagogia who, to cut a long and fantastic prompt short, wanted a super sick Sherlock. So this is my first instalment, there isn't too much angst in this chapter but there will be a lot more to come, and probably relatively soon too. It took me a good three attempts before I was happy enough to post this so I hope you all enjoy it. I apologise if my updates are not regular, unfortunately university does have to take precedence over fanfiction as much as I would like it not to. Please let me know what you think through a review. They really do encourage me. _

_Disclaimer: surprisingly I don't actually own Sherlock, that privilege sadly falls to the BBC and other people who are much better at writing than me. _

**Fragile**

**Chapter 1- I'm fine**

The dark and thunderous skies rolled ominously overhead, intimidating and threatening. The wind and the rain drove almost everyone off the street, either into passing taxis or nearby shops, nobody wanted to be out in weather such as this. John had the TV turned up louder than usual so he could hear it over the rain as it pounded relentlessly against the glass. The rain drops shot powerfully into the window leaving large wet splodges in their wake which soon began to pour down the glass like a raging torrent.

John sat with the fire blazing, watching the harsh British weather more than he was the TV. In 221B he was safe and dry and he was reassured by the fact that he did not have to leave the flat that evening, there was no reason for him to venture into the treacherous weather. There wasn't even a risk of him getting dragged out either by a certain consulting detective; he was out doing… something. John didn't know what, there was probably a case on and John simply hadn't arrived back to the flat in time for Sherlock to drag him out, not that he was complaining. The doctor felt a twinge of worry as he thought of his friend being outside; hopefully he'd got the common sense to seek some sort of shelter. At this thought John shook his head; Sherlock was a grown man and perfectly capable of looking after himself. At any rate, if it was a case he was on that hadn't allowed him to wait for John, Lestrade was probably there, he'd make sure the idiot didn't do anything truly stupid and fool-hardy.

* * *

For the next few days it didn't seem to stop raining, usually it was just drizzling but the occasional downpour would hit the streets of London chasing everyone inside. John managed to just escape such a downpour, exiting the taxi and dashing to the door of 221b just as it started. Even in the few seconds he had been out in it his hair was soaked and the water was rolling off his jacket. Unlike Sherlock he did not have the desire to get soaked to the skin, how his friend had managed to stay out in weather like that for several hours was beyond him. Even if it had been an interesting case as he had claimed when he entered the flat looking more like a drowned rat than an actual human being, surely there was only so many deductions to be made off a dead body once all the evidence had been washed away, a process that would not have taken that long.

Now that he thought about it John realised that he had not actually seen or heard from his flatmate in a couple of days. This wasn't particularly unusual in itself, his friend was prone to his bouts of silence especially after a case, but John had the nagging sensation that he should check on the man. Wearily he trudged up the stairs, stripping his jacket of as he went and brushing some of the excess water off it. Out of habit he went and put the kettle on before tentatively knocking at the detective's door. "Sherlock, are you alive?" he asked jokily but when he received a groan in reply he grew slightly more concerned. "Sherlock!" he said a little louder this time. "Are you alright mate?"

"Hmm? Yeah, fine," came the reply which sounded more than a little raspy. John wasn't buying it, he was a doctor after all, and not the idiot Sherlock claimed he was.

"I'm coming in," he announced as he opened the door, deciding it wasn't worth waiting for permission since he would not get it.

The room was dim, the only light was that which managed to find its way in through the small window and even that was mostly blocked by the curtain. Sherlock was lying in bed, his sheets a mess, twisted around him as if he had been fidgeting a lot. He lay on his back, typing away vigorously on his phone. He turned his head towards John, still typing faster than the doctor ever would have been able to even if he was looking whilst he was doing it, and stared at him questioningly. The doctor stared back at him, trying to determine if he was paler than usual or if it was just his imagination. He then remembered how weak Sherlock's voice had been so perhaps he was sick. But Sherlock didn't get sick, well of course he got sick, everyone gets sick at some point. But Sherlock and 'ill' just seemed wrong; the two things were incompatible with each other. "I'm going to switch the light on," John stated with hardly any warning.

The sudden light obviously startled the younger man; the phone broke free of his grasp and fell, straight onto his face. Sherlock let out a cry of both pain and surprise whilst John snorted in amusement; it was strange but slightly pleasing to see the normally perfectly composed man make a fool of himself. In response to his friend's laughter Sherlock fixed him with a glare, it didn't scare John (not anymore anyway) but he did calm himself down. He knew that look meant that if he carried on Sherlock would get upset, or his version of upset, which meant he'd be even more angry and demanding than usual.

"Are you alright?" John asked, once again being concerned for his friend.

"Yes, perfectly fine," he replied irritably just before he supressed a cough causing his body to convulse violently.

This time it was John's turn to fix Sherlock with a glare. "You shouldn't lie to me about your health Sherlock, it's not good. But having a cold serves you right; you shouldn't have stayed out in that rainstorm for so long."

"Case," was Sherlock's reply, he obviously thought that the discussion was not worthy of his attention.

"Your health is more important that a damn case you know." At this the Consulting Detective waved his hand in a dismissive fashion but John knew him well enough to know that it really meant he disagreed with him. "Dammit Sherlock, your health matters you know. When was the last time you ate or drank anything anyway?" As a way of reply a thin hand let go of the phone and gestured down towards a half empty glass of water sitting next to the bed.

John frowned for what felt the hundredth time in a matter of minutes. Was that really all Sherlock had consumed in the past two days? "Sherlock, you need to drink and eat," he said sounding more weary than frustrated. "Do you know what? I'm going to get you a glass of juice which you will drink and a cup of tea. Then you will eat whatever I put in front of you. This is non-debatable." And with that John stalked angrily out of the room slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The door slammed shut causing Sherlock to wince as pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes to protect them from the bright light, something he had been longing to do ever since John had switched the light on. It was far too bright and it hurt his eyes. Even his phone was on the dimmest setting because the normal screen sent tendrils of pain shooting through his eyes and into his brain. Cracking his eyelids open slightly he stumbled over to his light switch and his room was cast back into glorious darkness and the pain lessened slightly. Slowly he shuffled back across to his bed and literally fell onto it, curling up in the sheets, trying to stave off some of the pain he was feeling.

Lying there in the darkness Sherlock began to drift off, his bed was warm and soft and the darkness was oddly soothing. It seemed to sooth his racing mind, slowing it down, and reducing the throbbing in his head to a dull ache. He sighed contentedly, shuffling down further into the covers. Unfortunately John did not leave him in peace for long; suddenly he barged in allowing light to burst into the room and Sherlock's headache came back with a vengeance as he was startled from his relaxed state. "Right," John started loudly in his no nonsense tone of voice. "Drink this," he ordered, standing in front of where Sherlock lay, holding a glass of orange juice towards him.

"Go, away," Sherlock mumbled angrily, wishing John would leave, he felt awful and he certainly did not need his friend to see it.

"No, just drink this and I'll leave." The detective weighed up his options before pulling himself up into a sitting position, schooling his expression into one of cold indifference as opposed to the grimace which he had been wearing. Knowing John as he did he was sure the man was lying but his brain was slow and he couldn't think of a quicker way to make him leave.

As soon as the cool liquid touched his lips he realised how thirsty he had been and he downed it causing John to frown at him. "You should have drunk that more slowly, you could make yourself sick," the doctor scolded. The younger man shrugged, eyeing the slices of toast in John's hand warily. As weird as it sounded the orange juice had left him feeling full and bloated, he wasn't sure he'd be able to have the toast too. He didn't really want it but he knew there was going to be a debate on the matter. Sherlock shifted in the bed, he most certainly did not like the way John was looking at him, he couldn't place the look but it did make him slightly uncomfortable to be under its scrutiny.

"You can go now John," Sherlock said, hoping desperately he would take the not –so-subtle hint. Unsurprisingly he did not.

"Not until you eat the toast," he ordered, placing the toast down on the chest of drawers next to his bed.

"No, I'm thinking," Sherlock lied irritably. Truth was he felt slightly nauseous and not in the least bit hungry but he didn't think John would take it as a valid excuse.

The detective looked up and met his friend's eyes, there was that look again. It looked like pity. John pitied him, this made his blood boil in rage. Without knowing what was going on within the genius' head John reached forward and pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead and the man jumped away from the touch and sprang out of bed. He grew impossibly whiter and John was sure he was going to collapse.

"I'm going for a shower," he proclaimed and hurried as fast as he could to the bathroom, cup of tea in hand.

"Sherlock!" John shouted in confusion and concern. All he got in reply was the slam of a door.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later John heard the water in the shower come to a stuttering stop and he pulled himself up out of his armchair to switch on the kettle. He needed to talk to Sherlock and if the man had a mug of tea in his hands he would not be able to run away. As it happened there was no point in even trying. Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, damp curls clinging to the sides of his face and his jacket donned. "Where are you going Sherlock?" the doctor asked carefully, trying to surreptitiously give his friend a once over. The man looked no better than he had before, still pale skinned and exhausted looking, with what looked like a bruise coming up where he had dropped the phone on his face. The only way to truly describe how he was looking was 'like utter crap'. "I made tea," he commented hopefully, Sherlock really should not leave the flat.

"Out," he rasped. "Lestrade," he added before clearing his throat.

"You shouldn't be going out."

"I didn't ask you." The harshness of the comment was somewhat lost by his weak voice.

Turning around he headed down the stairs, leaving John behind staring in concern and frustration for a few moments before he quickly threw the tea down the sink. He grabbed his coat on the way down and was thankful he still had his shoes on because Sherlock was already clambering into a cab. But damn it he was not being left behind, not when his friend was so obviously unwell.

As he clambered into the back of the cab Sherlock glared at him. "I'm sorry Sherlock," John said, not really sure what he was apologising for, all he knew was he had freaked Sherlock out or angered him or something. You could never be totally sure with Sherlock. The detective nodded at him and turned his attention to the window, the atmosphere in the back of the cab was still tense but John felt he had been forgiven. It was usual for Sherlock to ignore someone, it was not usual for him to glare at someone for more than a second unless that person happened to be Anderson or Donovan.

When they arrived at the crime scene Sherlock practically leapt out of the cab and stalked off to find Lestrade or the body, whichever he stumbled upon first, and left John to pay. He slowed his pace as a wave of dizziness cam over him, perhaps it was the flu he had, he'd fallen in the shower. Luckily he'd managed to catch himself to make it into a controlled fall so the good doctor hadn't heard but still, that was very unlike him. But John couldn't know, it would pass soon anyway. He didn't want that look of pity or whatever it was again.

Whilst deep in thought he walked straight into Lestrade who jumped around in surprise. "Damn Sherlock, you nearly gave me a heart attack." Sherlock shot him a strange look.

"That is highly improbable," he stated causing the DI to chuckle briefly before he looked at the younger man more closely.

"Are you alright Sherlock? If you need to go back to the flat that's fine, I can send you the case file once we are done here."

"Oh, don't you start," he commented angrily, forcing himself not to break into a coughing fit. "I'm fine. I've gotten enough of this from John."

"What's that?" John asked as he walked into the room.

"Doesn't matter, where are we?" Sherlock asked, feeling himself swaying and desperately hoping neither of the men in the room did not notice. Thankfully they did not.

"Just in the living room," Lestrade replied, gesturing to a room to their right. He was about to lead Sherlock in when John grabbed his arm to stop him.

"I'll be through soon Sherlock; I just need to talk to Greg for a minute." The detective shrugged his shoulders and walked in, obviously John wanted to talk about his health but he couldn't care less. Now he had something to focus on he was sure he would feel a lot better.

When Sherlock disappeared into the room Lestrade turned to John with his brow furrowed in concern. "Everything alright?" he asked, leaning with his back against the wall and his arms folded.

"Um, I don't know. Sherlock's sick, I'm guessing you noticed that."

"Yeah, he's not as good at hiding it as he thinks he is." John chuckled.

"No, that is true. It was during that case a few days ago, he stayed out in the rain."

"Damn, he didn't did he?" Lestrade asked with his eyes wide. "I lost him when we were out but I thought he had at least an ounce of common sense. Sorry John, I should have kept a closer eye on him."

"No, it's the idiot's own fault. I was just wondering if you noticed anything at all whilst you were on the case, before the rain started. Did you notice anything odd? I want to know if it is just a cold or something I need to be keeping an eye on, not that it'll be an easy job mind, not with him trying to throw me off the trail all the way."

"Well," Lestrade screwed his eyebrows together in concentration as he thought back to the case. "He seemed a bit, I don't know, shaky… No, that's not the right word, he just didn't seem quite right. He couldn't run as fast as usual and he seemed a bit more tired. I just presumed you and he had been working on something and he hadn't eaten for a while, nothing out of the ordinary there."

"No, I suppose not."

"John, don't worry. He doesn't get sick; I've never see him sick before today. Going through withdrawal yes, but not certifiably sick. Man's got a good strong immune system going for him. He'll be over this in a couple of days."

"Everyone gets sick Greg." As if to reinforce his point there was a sudden bang from the other room, the two men looked at each other and rushed in.

* * *

Sherlock closed the door behind him, glad to see Lestrade had the common sense to remove Donovan and Anderson from the vicinity before his arrival. The room was empty apart from him and the corpse. It felt weird that John wasn't at his side but he shrugged the feeling off, not wanting to dwell on it at all.

_Woman, mid-thirties, two children, happily married, recently lost her job at a fast food chain. _Who would want to murder a happily married woman, a mother, who used to work in a fast food place? And why this house? She had no lover so that wasn't it, it just didn't make sense. Perhaps this would be a much more interesting case than he had originally thought. He pulled himself up to his full height to look at the room as a whole when his legs suddenly gave out from under him. There was nothing for him to grab onto so he fell with a bang. What the hell was wrong with him? Quickly he pulled himself into a crouching position to make it look like he was examining the body. The position made his knees throb from where he had landed on them but he kept his face blank as the door was thrown open. "Are you alright?" Lestrade proclaimed as he strode over to the younger man who seemed fascinated with the woman's hands, looking under her rings and examining her fingernails.

"Yes, fine, why?" he demanded, not once taking his eyes from the dead woman in case he gave any unintentional indicator of how much pain he was in.

"Because we heard a loud bang. It sounded like you fell," John said, trying to get a proper look at his friend.

"Well I did not," Sherlock stated, rising up again, albeit more slowly than usual so he didn't succumb to something as inane as dizziness. "I'll take the case Lestrade, nothing about it seems to make sense. It is most intriguing."


	2. Self Sacrifice

_WOW! I am astounded by the response I have gained from this, thank you so much to everyone who responded in any way to the first chapter, you have no idea the joy I feel when I receive an email about one of my stories so thank you once again. This took longer than I anticipated to put up, I had an important essay due which I got in today. I wanted to get this chapter up after such a long break from it. Unfortunately it is now 3:30am and I have a lecture at 9. I'm sure it'll be fine; lectures are made for sleeping through anyway. ;) _

_Please drop me a review. I promise I will love you forever if you do._

**Fragile**

**Chapter 2- Self sacrifice**

"How long have you been down here?" John asked, frowning, as he wandered into the living room in a dressing gown drying his hair with a towel. Unfortunately he was pretty sure that he knew the answer already but he was giving Sherlock the opportunity to prove him wrong. It had been three days since the start of the case and it was proving to be a difficult one. They seemed no further along than they did at the beginning; Sherlock downright refused to sleep or eat rattling off the usual nonsense about digestion slowing him down and his mind being an engine. John didn't know where these metaphors came from, nor did he care, but his best friend's health was obviously suffering for his obsession over the work. The worst thing about it was John knew that he could do nothing about it other than nag him incessantly and hope that he annoyed Sherlock into doing as he said.

"Sherlock, how long have you been up?" John asked again once he had decided that Sherlock definitely was not going to answer his question. When he had gone to bed last night Sherlock had been in exactly the same position. Once again there was no response. Concerned the doctor chucked the towel over the back of his chair and hurried through to the kitchen and saw that Sherlock was actually not looking through his microscope, he had actually fallen asleep with his eyes against the eyepieces. John couldn't help but imagine that it was probably incredibly uncomfortable and how exhausted Sherlock must have been to fall asleep like that. But he also could do nothing to stop the chuckle. Despite the fact that most of Sherlock's face was obscured by the microscope John was sorely tempted to take a photograph but in the end decided not to. Knowing his best friend he'd probably deduce the photo had been taken and then make John's life a living hell until it was deleted.

Instead the doctor approached his friend and shook his shoulder gently. "Come on Sherlock," he said in a low voice but despite his precautions Sherlock jumped back in surprise. His eyes were bloodshot with dark shadows underneath. The purple bruise from when he had dropped his phone stood out with astonishing contrast against his pale white skin. But John did not notice this, he was completely preoccupied with the swirls of dried blood coming from his nose and streamed down his face, making its way onto his t-shirt, what would have once been a brilliant red was a dirty brown. Obviously Sherlock knew there was something wrong as he tentatively raised his hands to his face and felt around gently in confusion. Apparently he had been unaware of his nose bleed which had at one point been pouring like a torrent.

The doctor stood startled for a few seconds before bursting into action. Wordlessly he fetched a large bowl, scrubbed it clean because who knew what had been in there last, and filled it with warm soapy water. Whilst he was doing this Sherlock had obviously become bored and continued with whatever he was doing with the microscope before he had drifted off. John actually had to shout his name before he was willing to prise his eyes away from the object on the other side of the lens. "What?" he demanded, a lot of the vehemence was lost due to the apparent fragility in his voice.

"You need to clean yourself up. And I know I won't be able to persuade you to eat something but will you sleep, even if it's only for an hour?" Picking up the cloth Sherlock shook his head.

"Once I've solved the case," he rasped. Carefully he began to dab at the dried blood, occasionally having to scrape it off the surface of his skin.

"Sherlock…"

"No." He said it in such a way that John knew there was no point in trying to argue.

"Fine."

Angrily John turned around and started to undergo the process of making tea. The doctor didn't see it but for a moment Sherlock's movements faltered, the cloth was held mid-air and Sherlock gazed at John's back. His expression held a deep-seated kind of sadness and fear which intensified as he noted that there was only one mug on the cabinet.

"Sorry John," Sherlock muttered just loud enough for John to hear. John paused and looked at his friend with surprise and his expression softened slightly. However all he did as a reply was grunt. It was enough for Sherlock to know he was forgiven.

The two of them finished off their tasks in silence. Sherlock put the cloth back in the bowl of water which was stained a sickly shade of red and reverted his attention back to the microscope with an intense concentration. He was momentarily distracted when he heard a thump on the table next to him which caused him to look up to see what was going on. There was a mug, the mug that had been on the cabinet before, sitting next to him. Steam drifted gently off of it and the contents looked warm and inviting. "Drink," John ordered. "I'm going to get dressed!" he called as he disappeared out of the room.

* * *

In the end John was upstairs for close enough to an hour. He was supposed to be going to Harry's that day and stay for a few days but the doctor in him was not confident that leaving Sherlock to his own devices when he was obviously unwell was a good idea. Even if he got people to check on him if something happened he could end up on his own for hours. Mentally John slapped himself, Sherlock was a grown man and he could look after himself. Except he couldn't, the man had the worst self-preservation instincts John had ever known. In the end he had called Harry to ask her if she minded him coming another time, and apparently she had minded a lot. They hadn't seen each other in almost a year, the doctor was very much aware of this, but there was a reason they had left it so long. After a couple of days they got sick of each other and by the fourth day they always wanted to kill each other. Why he had let himself get talked into going for four days John just didn't know but he had. That was four days of hell for him and four days Sherlock would be alone.

* * *

There was nothing there, how could there be nothing there? There had to be, simply had to be. Sherlock raised shaking hands to the fine focus and adjusted it slightly. He had been looking for something, he didn't know what, but there had to be something in her blood, something that the labs wouldn't look for. It was the only possible explanation; the official report said she had died of heart failure but a perfectly healthy and happy woman with no family history simply did not suffer a heart attack in a random house. He must be missing something.

He removed the slide and placed it on the table before pressing his fingertips together in a contemplative manner. He had to be losing his touch, why could he not figure it out? Stupid! It couldn't be too difficult, everyone was an idiot and that included criminals. Sherlock had no idea how long he was sitting in his thoughtful pose but he was suddenly brought back into consciousness when his chin slipped off his finger tips and his head jerked forward.

In frustration of his weakness he slammed his clenched fist against the table and a groan escaped his lips as the microscope slide shattered under the force and embedded the shards into his skin. Tentatively he lifted his hand from the table, wincing at the slight movement of the glass. There wasn't a lot in there but it was enough. Bright blood began to drip slowly onto the table and formed a small puddle. After watching with a kind of sick fascination for a couple of minutes as the pool grew larger and larger the detective grabbed a tea towel, wrapped his hand in it then dropped onto the couch. He had more important things to do than try and get the glass out, John could do it later.

For the next twenty minutes Sherlock lay on the couch, pressing into his hand causing tendrils of pain shooting up his arm whenever he felt himself beginning to drift. His ears perked slightly when he heard John coming back down the stairs but he didn't move. "Sher…" John started as he walked into the kitchen only to discover that the detective was not there. It only took him a few moments to see he was lying on the couch and then he saw the towel wrapped tightly around his hand.

"I can't leave you alone for a second can I?" John asked in mock frustration, he instantly went over to the couch and took Sherlock's hand. It took a lot of effort for the younger man not to groan in pain as his hand was unwrapped.

What John saw made him wince in sympathy, there wasn't a lot of glass but the shards were big and had gone in deep. He still reckoned he could get them out with a pair of tweezers. "When did you do this?" he asked as he wrapped his friend's hand back up. "Couple of minutes ago? You should have shouted."

"No, twenty minutes ago," Sherlock replied distractedly, he was still trying to solve the mystery that was his current case.

"Twenty minutes ago!" John proclaimed in surprise. "Geez, it's still bleeding an awful lot." To this Sherlock shrugged and John shook his head in exasperation.

Sherlock didn't even realise John had gone but he re-emerged a few minutes later with some bandages, some disinfectant and some bandages. The process of removing the glass was a painful one but throughout Sherlock remained stoic. He did not speak and he did not react in any way. In fact he made a conscious effort to make it look like he was thinking and John seemed to fall for it. He didn't see to attempt to make any mundane conversation like he did so love to do.

"Fancy telling me how you got that?" John asked and Sherlock looked up. He was sitting in his seat, holding a cup of tea and staring directly at Sherlock. When did that happen?

"Microscope slide," he replied causing John to crease his brow in confusion.

"What do you mean microscope slide?" the doctor asked curiously but Sherlock waved him off. Sighing John put his cup of tea down and leaned forwards so that his elbows were resting on his knees. "Look Sherlock…"

"Thinking," the detective interrupted.

"No, listen, this is important." He used his army voice and even though Sherlock did not move John knew he had his attention. "I don't like this; this cold is not going away. You're exhausted and not eating and dropping your phone should not have caused that kind of bruise. I am just worried this is more sinister than a cold. Will you come down to the surgery with me? We'll just draw some blood or something to make sure this isn't serious."

Red rimmed, icy blue eyes turned to glare at him and John physically recoiled at the look he was given. It was hard to describe but if he had to he'd describe it as worry masked with anger and frustration, a lot of anger and frustration. But John couldn't fathom what Sherlock was worried about, he seemed to think that it was just a cold, unless he didn't think it was just a cold. "What are you hiding from me?" John demanded, not sure if he was more worried or angry that his best friend had been hiding health related issues from him. He didn't know why he thought Sherlock would actually confide in him but he had hoped he would.

The glare turned impossibly more intense but the doctor held his ground, this was important and it wasn't like the idiot would take care of himself. "I am thinking John," Sherlock growled but John could see him physically trying to stop himself from coughing.

"Yes, you are thinking, but very soon you will be sleeping because you are exhausted and refuse to eat. It isn't normal, not even for you."

"I rarely sleep or eat, you know this," Sherlock replied irritably then instantly fell into a deep and hacking coughing fit which left him breathless. John just watched him incredulously.

"Right, I don't care what you say, I'm staying here." At this Sherlock's expression turned into one of bewilderment.

"Where else would you be staying?"

"Damn it Sherlock, I've told you every day for the last week, I am going to Harry's!" John shouted causing Sherlock to jump back in surprise, he shrank back slightly into the sofa but John didn't notice the change in his friend. "Do you ever listen to a word I say?" Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John interrupted him. "No, I don't want to hear it. I know the answer already. I don't know why I bother."

"I don't know why you bother either."

There was a pause in which the two men stared at each other, having no idea how to react. Sherlock was berating himself, mentally screaming at himself for being such an idiot. John on the other hand was barely containing his rage but he only managed to do this for a few seconds before it erupted out of him. "Fine," he hissed, giving Sherlock a look which matched the detective's own earlier look for ferocity. "If you don't want me here I'll just leave. I know when I am wanted." It took the detective a couple of seconds to understand what was going on. John had misconstrued what he said; John had thought he'd meant he didn't like John being there. Nothing could be further from the truth. But he couldn't decide which was better; John thinking he hated him or John understanding Sherlock's accidental confession about his insecurities. However he did not have long to ponder this. Moments later John had stormed out of the room and up the stairs, reappearing a few minutes later to grab his jacket.

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock practically whimpered, watching on helplessly as his best friend prepared to leave.

"Shut the hell up Sherlock," the doctor replied either not noticing the drastic change in the detective's demeanour or being too angry to care. "You're not sorry." With that John was gone and Sherlock heard the front door slamming shut downstairs. His heart beat violently in his chest and his eyes burned but he kept any tears at bay. He could not lose it, he had a case to focus on and he did not need John for that. He did not need anyone, he was alone in the world and that was the way he liked it. Funny, it didn't sound as convincing now as it used to.

But the case, it was intriguing and therefore distracting and if any old habits of his began to nag at the back of his mind promising respite from any pain he denied he was feeling he ignored it. Slowly he rearranged himself on the couch so he was lying back in his thinking position and he relished in the throbbing pain in his hand as it served as yet another distraction.

The next thing he knew Mrs Hudson was leaning over him concernedly, he looked up at her dazedly. "Are you alright dear?" She asked. "I heard shouting earlier and you're looking a little peaky. Where's John." Sherlock ignored her questions but instead pulled himself into a sitting position, his vision going a little fuzzy for a few seconds.

"What time is it?" he demanded.

"Six o'clock." The last time he's known it was half ten, how had he missed so much of the day? There was something going on, John was right, he just didn't want to admit it. "Can I get you something to eat? You look like you could do with something." But Sherlock was no longer listening. He was too busy looking at her earrings. They were ridiculously big and shiny.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped causing Mrs Hudson to turn around and then smile. She knew that look. It was so blatantly obvious; he definitely was losing his touch. It was blindingly obvious, but he had it now, he had to go and tell Lestrade. He'd rather not but he needed the man's resources. Excitedly the detective jumped up off the chair and swayed violently, his whole world vanishing into a sea of black for a few seconds. When he came back around he discovered Mrs Hudson doing her best to hold him upright. Smiling at her in thanks he started towards his bedroom to get dressed but the elderly lady grabbed his sleeve. "Perhaps you should stay in Sherlock," she suggested kindly. "Get John to check you out once he has calmed down from whatever you two were fighting about. If it's an important case you can always get that detective friend of yours to help." Sherlock looked her up and down critically for a few seconds before wordlessly pulling away from her grip.

* * *

"Earlobes!" Sherlock proclaimed as he walked into Lestrade's office. The DI's first response was confusion as to Sherlock's seemingly random announcement. The next thing he noticed was the distinctive lack of John, probably best to avoid that topic all together. Then he noticed the way Sherlock's normally tight fitting clothes seemed to hang ever so slightly and how dreadful the man looked. Why was he even here? He looked like he could do with being tucked up in his bed, or better yet, a hospital bed. But he knew Sherlock and he knew there was no point in suggesting such a thing.

"What about earlobes?" he asked, putting down the papers he had been looking at before. Sherlock practically collapsed into the chair across from him. "The gene which causes the earlobes to be attached is recessive."

"And…? I'm not following here Sherlock." The detective sighed dramatically.

"The dead woman and the father have attached earlobes, I remember from the photos and the interview. The oldest son had detached earlobes which means…"

"… the husband is not the father. But what has this to do with the case?"

"Everything!" Sherlock declared before collapsing into yet another coughing fit which had the people in the offices looking towards Lestrade's in concern.

"Are you alright, do you want some water?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the younger man who waved him off.

"No time," he rasped. "Why didn't the husband say that the oldest child was not his?"

"Maybe he doesn't know," Lestrade answered in frustration at Sherlock's cryptic speaking. Sherlock shook his head. "Just tell me what you're thinking man!" Lestrade growled. "If there is no time to have some water then there is no time to talk in riddles." Sherlock glared at him but did as he asked.

"I checked on my phone, the oldest child is nine but they started seeing each other eight years ago. He obviously didn't want us to know he wasn't the son's father which means the son does not know. Why would they not want the son to know his real father? Maybe his father was a nasty piece of work? It seems likely. Now, who would want to kill an ex-fast food worker with a husband and two sons other than a father who has been denied the right to see his child?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in astonishment. How he could think like that when he was feeling so rotten Lestrade would never know.

"You got all that from earlobes?"

"Simple really," Sherlock commented, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

"Go home and get some sleep. We can take it from here."

"No," Sherlock replied loudly, his eyelids snapping open once again. You need to go and take the father and sons into protective custody."

"Ok, we'll do that, you don't need to be there Sherlock."  
"Yes I do," he replied firmly. In reality he felt weak and exhausted but he didn't think he could face the flat. He had driven John away,_ stupid, stupid._

He was roused from his internal monologue by Lestrade's fingers clicking in his face. "If you're coming we are leaving now." Sherlock nodded wearily and followed Lestrade down to the cars, the DI made sure he walked slightly slower than usual to make sure the detective could keep up.

Soon they were underway and it was all Sherlock could do not to throw up all over himself. It wouldn't really be throwing up, more like bringing up some bile but it would be unpleasant none the less. The nausea which had been absent for a while was coming back with a vengeance and he had to keep swallowing to keep everything down.

That was the only thing which kept him awake during the twenty minute car ride, the distraction of trying not to be sick. Desperately he kept on checking his phone, hoping John had texted him but he had not. Three times Sherlock had composed a text to send to him but each time he had deleted it.

Soon the squad of police cars pulled up outside the house and they knocked at the door. There was no answer so they tried again and again. They'd spoken to the husband and they knew he was in so something was definitely going on. Swiftly they broke through the door and after a few seconds of searching they found them. The crazed madman with a knife held at the father's throat whilst the two children cowered in the corner. Police surrounded the two men whilst Donovan managed to whisk the children out of harm's way. Sherlock stood off to the side and observed what was going on.

"What's your name?" Lestrade asked, his weapon was still in his belt but the rest of the officer's had their guns trained on the man with the knife.

"Shut up!" The man shouted, his hand was shaking and a small trickle of blood flowed down the hostage's neck. He whimpered and clenched his eyes shut.

"You need to let him go, I'm sure we can work out some kind of compromise?" Lestrade tried again. He was by no means an expert on hostage situations but he had to stall until the experts did arrive.

"I don't need to do a damn thing!" the man screamed taking a tighter hold on his hostage who whimpered once again. The DI held his arms forward in a placating manner and tried again.

"What is it you want; we might be able to sort something out without any bloodshed."

Sherlock saw it before it happened. The madman threw his hostage to the side and launched himself at Lestrade, knife aimed at his neck, and the DI did not move. All his training escaped him. But Sherlock had seen this coming and managed to intercept him before he reached the older man, tackling him to the ground from the side. It took Lestrade a moment to register what was going on but by the time he had the rest of the officer's had either piled on top of the criminal or were checking the father was ok. Lestrade was just thankful they had gotten there on time; that had been a close call. How Sherlock had known that was going to happen Lestrade didn't know. Perhaps it was simply a fortunate coincidence, Sherlock oddly enough did believe in coincidence after all. Lestrade turned and opened his mouth to thank Sherlock but no sound came out as he saw the younger man's body go rigid on the floor. "Damn!" he shouted. "He's seizing!"


	3. Alone

_Thank you so much to everyone. The feedback I have gotten back as been absolutely amazing and I love you all. I think I replied to everyone I could who reviewed, and if not I am very sorry. And to you guests out there, it breaks my heart that I cannot reply to you, it really does. Just know that I really do appreciate your feedback more than I can say. Keep the reviews coming, they do keep me motivated._

_I am not entirely happy with this chapter so I hope that it is ok. I couldn't think of any other way to improve it so I decided to put it up before I got too freaked out to do so. So here is the next instalment. I can feel the real, hard-core angst coming in the next chapter so I hope you all get yourselves mentally prepared for it. So, please enjoy and please, if you can, do drop me a review. _

**Fragile**

**Chapter 3- Alone**

The first thing that popped into his head when he saw Sherlock convulsing on the floor was drugs. He didn't want to think it but what else was he supposed to think of? Even now, sitting in the back of the ambulance as the paramedics worked busily, attaching wires to his pale skin, he couldn't rid his mind of the niggling feeling. But Sherlock had been clean ever since he met John, John was a miracle worker and Lestrade greatly respected all that he had done for Sherlock and indeed all Sherlock had done for John. It was hard to describe but Sherlock seemed more human around the army doctor and it seemed he was happier too. The DI couldn't even imagine Sherlock relapsing whilst John was around.

But that did raise another, potentially worrying, question. Where was John? The consulting detective had been acting weirdly, well, more weirdly than usual. Things were never easy with Sherlock; only someone who knew him well could pick up on the nuances of his behaviour. Normally Lestrade would rely on John's assessment of Sherlock's mood as he himself still struggled to do so despite knowing him for several years longer. But he didn't have John today and even he could tell something was amiss. If John was simply away somewhere else Sherlock would not be behaving the way. The only way he was going to know was by talking to John, he couldn't imagine Sherlock would be too forthcoming with information.

Shaking his head violently to get himself out of his reverie Lestrade focussed on what was going on around him. The paramedics were no longer bustling about so much but were writing things down and frowning at the younger, still unconscious, man. It was weird seeing his face so still, normally it would be pulled into a frown or a look of intense concentration. Very rarely he was smiling, only if he had a breakthrough on a case or on the rare occasion of John being able to make him laugh. But now it was relaxed he looked, well he looked absolutely terrible. Gaunt would probably be the only way to describe him. How had he managed to get even thinner? There was something going on and Lestrade wished John was there, at least then there was the faintest hope that someone would know what was happening.

The one comfort he took from the situation was the beeping of the heart monitor, it seemed to be a bit too fast but at least it was there. The DI let his eyes drift from the sick man's face and his eyes widened as he saw his arms. Sherlock's coat and jacket had been removed and his shirt sleeve rolled up to fit the blood pressure cuff on but they were covered in bruises, ugly smudges of purple, red and green marred the once pale arms and it made Lestrade feel sick to his stomach. How the hell had Sherlock managed to sustain such severe bruising? The marks disappeared under his shirt sleeve so he had no idea how far up his arm they spread.

The journey seemed endless, punctuated only by the beeping of the heart monitor and the mutterings of the paramedics. Finally they arrived at the hospital and despite trying his best to remain with Sherlock, Lestrade was escorted to a waiting room, provided with a coffee by one of the nurses, and then left to wait and see what happened. Whilst his coffee was cooling he phoned New Scotland Yard, explained a civilian had taken a seizure at a crime scene so he was at the hospital to ensure he was ok. That left him with the task he had been dreading; phoning John. He had absolutely no idea how the doctor would react.

Reluctantly he found John in his address book and hit the call button. John's phone rang seven times before he answered. "What is it Greg?" he asked, he sounded annoyed.

"John, its Sherlock."

"Look, I don't care what he did or did not do or who he insulted. I am not coming down."

"It is rather more serious than that."

"I don't know if you realise this Greg," John started sounding both tired and frustrated. "Sherlock and I had a fight. I'm staying at my sister's for four days. After that I will come down and speak to Sherlock but not a minute before then you understand. I am not his keeper and he does not want my help." _So they did have a fight_ Greg thought with an odd feeling of trepidation in the pit of his stomach.

"I know you're angry John but something has happened."

"What?" John asked, a hint of concern marring his otherwise purely annoyed tone of voice.

"He is sick." There was a brief pause and then a long-suffering sigh.

"I know he is sick Greg but he has made it abundantly clear he does not want and will not accept my help. I am very sorry but there is nothing that I can do for you right now. Let me calm down for a few days and then, perhaps, I will try and talk some sense into him."

With that John hung up leaving Lestrade staring at his phone in disbelief, John hadn't even been willing to listen to what Lestrade had to say. Not even the mention of Sherlock's health had made him want to listen. That must have been one hell of a fight. The DI was about to send John a message saying about the seizure when he saw a doctor approaching and decided that perhaps it could wait until he knew precisely what condition Sherlock was in.

* * *

"Sorry," John muttered, slipping his phone back into his pocket and looking up at his sister as she polished off the rest of her pasta. It was an easy Bolognese recipe Mrs Hudson had shown him, Harry had never been the best of cook so whenever he visited he would have to cook if he wanted a proper meal.

"It's fine," she replied, taking a sip of her water, an action John couldn't help but grin at. He had not seen a single bottle of alcohol at her house and he had searched, rather thoroughly. Living with Sherlock had taught him where to look if someone was hiding something. "I hope everything is ok, you sounded stressed." John shrugged and picked up his fork to finish off the pasta.

"It was Lestrade, just sounds like Sherlock being Sherlock again and he has forgotten how to cope with that." Not drinking suited Harry, this was the most civilised conversation that they'd managed to have in years. Perhaps the next four days would not be quite as hellish as he had expected.

His and Harry's relationship was a fragile one to say the least. They had to avoid any topic which could be at all controversial or else they would start a fight that would result in a refusal to talk to each other for several months. Therefore it was an unspoken rule that they could only converse about 'safe' topics which meant conversations about the weather and the prices of things in the shops broken up by long periods of awkward silence. Unfortunately Harry, despite being sober, did not stick to this unspoken rule. "I don't know why you live with him," she commented nonchalantly as she placed a soapy plate on the draining board.

"Hm?" he responded, picking up the plate and beginning to dry it with a tea towel.

"Sherlock, why do you live with him? I mean all he ever seems to do is cause you grief so why do you put up with it?" John paused with his drying and considered his answer. He could see how this would end and he wanted more than anything to avoid the inevitable shouting match.

"Well, I know he has a lot of quirks but he is utterly brilliant."

"I was just wondering though, what makes you think he even likes you? Don't get me wrong, he should like you. But from what you have old me it seems that he does not make friends easily and he is good at acting if it suits him. How do you know you are friends? How do you know he simply is not using you as means to an end?"

John stood there is stunned silence, considering his reply. It was a good question, with Sherlock one never could tell. But somehow he knew Sherlock trusted him and, though he probably would not admit it out loud, did like John. Perhaps it was because of how long they had lived together and how much time they spent together. Sherlock had no patience for people he did not like but yet he could tolerate, even enjoyed, John's company for long periods of time. Yes, Sherlock was a good actor, but not that good an actor. But Harry's comment wrangled him for more than one reason. It angered him that she would try to put such doubts in his mind and even worse was it was working to an extent. He had logical arguments as to why he knew Sherlock considered him a friend but still he had that niggling feeling at the back of his mind. But what angered him the most was he was brilliant but she obviously didn't think so. Yes, the doctor was angry at him but no matter how much he wanted to he could not hate the eccentric detective. "I'm going out for some air," he proclaimed, he wanted to get out before the argument turned nasty. He chucked the tea towel onto the cabinet and stalked out of the room.

Once he was outside the air was chilly but refreshing and he relished in it, it was quite a relief after being stuck in the tense environment with his sister for the past few hours. He began to take off down the road, dwelling on the events of the day. The doctor was regretting his actions earlier in the day, he was angry at Sherlock but it sounded like he was sicker than he was letting on. Still, pride was not letting him even consider going back to Baker Street until the four days were over. Knowing the Detective he would have recovered by then and would be out solving cases again if he even bothered stopping to recover in the first place. Still, it might be wise phoning Lestrade back to see what was going on.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and called the DI, he grew more and more frustrated each time the phone rang without an answer. Eventually he was put onto the answering machine and he growled. "Hi Greg, its John. Sorry about earlier, I've just had a bit of a difficult day. I was just wondering if you could phone me back and let me know what is going on with Sherlock. I'm not saying I am coming back; I just want to make sure he is not dying. Anyway, thanks, I'll talk to you later." John hung up the phone, feeling slightly better about the situation. That was until a sleek back car glided past him like a ghost and came to a smooth stop just ahead of him. At this he felt his heart sink.

A large suited man stepped out of the vehicle, walked round the back of the car, and held the door open expecting John to clamber in. He shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, I am not getting in this damn car. I want to know what is going on before I even consider getting in there."

"I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to get into the car sir," said the suited man in a voice posh enough to rival that of Mycroft's.

"Or what? What are you going to do if I don't? Drug me?" John scoffed.

"I would prefer not to resort to such methods sir." The doctor most certainly did not like the sound of that but he was determined not to be intimidated by Mycroft and certainly not his minions.

"Tell me what is going on now," he ordered. For the first time the driver actually looked at him.

"I have not been made privy to the details but I have been assured the situation in serious sir." John couldn't help but wonder if he was instructed to finish ever sentence with the word _Sir_.

For a few moments he considered his options. He was well and truly curious and concerned with what was going on and, if the situation was not as dire as he was being led to believe, he didn't actually have to go into Baker Street. "Fine," he said, injecting as much anger into his words as he could. After clambering in the door slammed shut behind him and he turned, ready to interrogate Anthea. However his mouth was left hanging open when instead of meeting the gaze of the pretty woman as he had expected it was Mycroft Holmes he made eye-contact with. If the elder Holmes wanted to talk to him he was never involved in collecting him. "This must be bad," he commented dumbly.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied just as the driver's door shut. "Take us straight to the hospital," he ordered and the car pulled away.

At the mention of _hospital _John's eyes went wide with concern. "What happened?" he demanded, having to hold himself back for fear that he would grab Mycroft by his perfectly ironed shirt, he was so desperate for information.

"There was an incident at a crime scene."

"What kind of incident do you damn well mean?" he asked angrily, not in the mood for the cryptic messages the Holmes' seemed to like talking in.

"He took a seizure and he went to hospital, Lestrade was in the ambulance with him. He is currently stable but still unconscious. They are running tests as we speak. I do not know any more right now." At the mention of a seizure John found himself unable to concentrate on the rest of what Mycroft was saying. He started running through all the possible diagnoses but none of them were good. Pit would probably be best not to think about it. The irony of what he had said to Lestrade was not lost on him. _I just want to make sure he is not dying._

* * *

The journey across to the hospital lasted three quarters of an hour and that was probably the most awkward forty five minutes of John's life. It was even worse than when he was with his sister because at least then he could make small talk. It was impossible to make small talk with Mycroft without being scoffed at. The elder Holmes spent his time typing constantly on his phone and John was curious as to whether he was doing stuff related to Sherlock or Government things. He didn't bother asking, either way he would not get a straight answer. Instead he looked out the window but he saw nothing of the passing scenery, his mind was too busy worrying about his friend, their earlier argument had been completely lost.

Once inside the hospital John simply followed Mycroft, this was not St Bart's so he did not know his way around; Mycroft on the other hand apparently knew exactly the way to go which was no surprise when he thought about it. Surprisingly Mycroft did not enter the detective's room when they arrived, merely gestured to John to enter and then said he was going to find the doctor. But John didn't care as the Government Official strode confidently off. All he could do was stand with his hand placed on the door handle trying to gather the strength to open the door whilst thinking about how fortunate it was that Sherlock had been allocated a single room. Sherlock and hospitals certainly did not mix but Sherlock and a hospital room with other people was a recipe for complete and utter disaster.

In the end he pressed on the door handle gently and the door swung silently open. The back of Lestrade's head blocked his view of the figure in the bed; the DI obviously had not heard him enter as he did not turn round. Reluctantly John approached the bed, not sure if he wanted to see what his friend looked like in his weakened state. Whatever his mind had conjured up was nothing compared to the reality of the situation. No wonder Lestrade had not heard him come in; as soon as he lay eyes on the detective he was transfixed.

Dark hair fell loosely over translucent skin which looked a sickly grey colour when compared to the painfully white pillow under his head. There was a slight flush of pink across his cheek bones, his actual cheeks looked hollow and ghastly, he looked more like a skull with skin pulled tightly across it than a human being. The bruise across the bridge of his nose looked even worse than before, an ugly purple spread across otherwise pale skin. Similar bruises were spread up his arm disappearing beneath the hospital gown and blood pressure cuff. The hand that John had wrapped up was now in a fresh looking bandage. Wires led into Sherlock's body, glancing at the bags above his bed John realised they had put him on IV glucose solution which made John feel slightly ill, he must have starved himself into hypoglycaemia. There was one word to describe how Sherlock looked and that was sick.

Eventually Lestrade seemed to notice John's presence and gave him a sad smile. "You came?" he asked not sounding terribly surprised.

"Yeah, Mycroft came by and got me. Sorry about earlier, I did phone but you didn't pick up."  
"Did you? Damn, sorry mate, I've been a little preoccupied." John nodded in understanding.

"So what happened?" he asked, his voice betraying the worry he was feeling.

"I'm not entirely sure. He rugby tackled some mad man trying to stab me and the next thing I know he is taking a seizure on the floor. Only lasted a minute mind but the only time I have ever seen him seize was when he was high so you can imagine what was going through my head, especially since the two of you had a fight. So we called an ambulance which took us here. They have taken a hell of a lot of blood from him for testing. A nurse came in about ten minutes ago and put him on that glucose, she said his blood sugar was too low to wait for him to wake up an eat something. She'll be back here soon to do his blood sugar again." John approached his friend slowly and gently laid his hand on Sherlock's. The normally vibrant man looked so fragile lying on the bed and he did not dare do more than touch his skin lightly for fear that he would break.

It was strange, seeing him like this, and it was a sight that John never wanted to see again. "Sorry," he whispered, as he watched Sherlock's chest steadily rise and fall. He could not help but feel a little guilt, perhaps if he had swallowed his pride and stayed instead of abandoning his friend Sherlock would not be in this condition.

* * *

_There were people everywhere; the busy streets of London were not something he enjoyed. He could tolerate them for a case but he was not on a case. In fact he had no idea why he was there. People were walking past him, inadvertently brushing up past him, all merging into a colourful blur of swirling movement. Up ahead there was something, or rather someone, who stood out from the rest of the crowd. They were not a part of the haziness around him. It was John._

_He lifted up his arms and waved at his friend, blocking out the sickening movement around him. He even tried shouting but John did not see him. "John!" he shouted desperately, "John!" All the people around him made him feel nervous but if he was with John it would be ok, they could go back to Baker Street and John would make tea and perhaps he could get rid of the head ache which was plaguing him._

_It was at this point Sherlock became aware of the stares. People were beginning to notice him, they were stopping and staring so there was no longer a swirling mass around him but instead a sea of faces. The worst part was he could read nothing off them. There was no data to be gained from them, he was surrounded by people he knew nothing about and that unnerved him more than he would care to admit. He ceased calling out for his friend and began pushing through the crowd, eyes still focussed on the doctor. He managed to make it half way through the crowd, his inability to read anything from the people around him was making him feel physically sick but still he persevered despite the fact he could feel himself weakening with each step. _

_Suddenly it was not just the exhaustion which stopped him moving forward but there were people holding onto his arms, preventing him from reaching his friend. In desperation he started calling out but all he was met with was laughter from behind. Glancing back he saw that Moriarty had one arm and Anderson had the other. At first it was just them laughing but soon the whole crowd was laughing, finding it hilarious that Sherlock thought people cared about him. They mocked him for thinking John liked him and for thinking Lestrade would still talk to him if he could not solve cases. But what broke Sherlock the most was when John turned to look to see what was going on, met his eyes and then without hesitation walked away._

* * *

Sherlock's heart rate had been steadily increasing and John was watching it with concern. Neither he nor the DI were prepared when Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed and began to dry heave, gasping for breath. It took a few seconds for them to recover from the surprise but once they had the two of them were instantly by his side, holding an emesis basin under his mouth despite knowing that there would be nothing in there to come out.

* * *

He could feel hands on him as his body tried to wring itself dry. The feeling of the crowds touching him still plagued his skin and their laughter still rang harshly in his ears. Desperately he pushed the owners of the hands away from him, grabbing the basin off them and flinching away as soon as they tried to touch him again. They soon seemed to get the idea as he was left alone. For some reason now that the hands were gone he missed their presence. They seemed comforting in a way despite his initial panic. But he couldn't get them back now so he sat on his bed, mouth burning with bile, feeling very much alone.


	4. Denial

_The update is finally here! Sorry it took so long, I'm not even going to bother giving reasons as to why it takes me so long to update anymore. _

_Thank you so much for all of the kind responses to this fic. You are all really kind so thank you. If I have not replied to your review then it's because I couldn't so thank you for reviewing. I wish I could reply to you all!_

_I'm just going to say that my next update will most likely not be up for a while. I have exams on the 9__th__, the 10__th__ and the 16__th__ December. I might use writing as a means of procrastinating in which case there will be an update but don't be surprised if there isn't one for a while. Just a wee warning for you. I haven't given up on the fic, I love the prompt too much to do that. _

_Anyway, almost time for the story… I'd just like to apologise if I in anyway offend anyone with this fic because it is not my intention. It is dealing with an illness I have never experienced (thankfully) but if I do offend or upset you just PM me and I will change it. _

_Now we can get on with the fic. I hope you enjoy and I hope it was worth the wait. And please, don't forget to review!_

**Fragile**

**Chapter 4- Denial**

The tapping of Mycroft's shoes and clicking of his umbrella as it made contact with the hard, hospital floor echoed ominously down the corridor. The hallway was far from deserted but Mycroft felt as if he were in a world of his own, he did not notice the people around him which was a peculiar sensation to the ever-observant Holmes.

Confidently he strode up to the nurse's station where he was met by a harried looking nurse. "Can I help you sir?" She asked, quickly glancing up from the folder she was flicking through.

"Yes, I wish to talk to my brother's doctor. A Dr Janssen I believe."

"And what is your name?" she asked looking up properly from the file.

"I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' brother."

"I'll make sure he is told you wish to talk to him. He is quite busy though so I can't promise when he will be with you." Mycroft considered this before nodding his thanks to the nurse and heading back down the corridor. He was not willing to wait to find out about his brother's condition.

* * *

Sherlock sat on his bed staring straight ahead refusing to look at either John or Lestrade. Both of them had attempted to remove the emesis basin from him trembling hands but he had held on with an iron grip refusing to let go. Neither of them were quite sure what to do so they sat there in an awkward silence, occasionally trying to coax some words from Sherlock but never succeeding. Somehow he looked worse than when he had been lying unconscious because he looked afraid and out of control. There were cracks in his usually impenetrable façade and no matter what he said it was obvious that he knew that there was something seriously wrong and he didn't know how to cope.

The doctor and the DI breathed an audible sigh of relief as Mycroft walked through the door. He did not take a seat but instead stood at the foot of his brother's bed spinning his umbrella slowly against the white floor. "It's nice to see you are back with us dear brother," Mycroft commented, sounding for all the world like there was nothing wrong. At this Sherlock's eyes flickered across to gaze angrily at Mycroft's face. John could not help but feel a slight sense of relief, that was more of a response than he had managed to get from his best friend. "You gave Dr Watson and the DI quite a scare, not to mention the others present and the crime scene."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock hissed angrily at Mycroft.

"You know why, you just don't want to admit it. You are sick and if you have made your own diagnosis you should tell us, it might speed proceedings up somewhat since you will most likely be correct."

There was a brief pause before Sherlock retaliated, albeit in a predictable manner. "There is nothing wrong with me."

"You've lost weight," he commented seriously and he looked the closest to concerned that he had ever looked in both John's and Lestrade's experience.

"You've gained it."  
"You're pale."  
"I am always pale."

"You have bruising."

"I have a dangerous job."

"You look exhausted."  
"I don't sleep when I am on a case."

"You have been nauseous."

"I have had the flu!"

"You had a seizure, dammit Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, momentarily losing his calm exterior much to the surprise of everyone in the room including himself, he took a deep breath to calm himself down. John doubted he got that flustered even when trying to prevent the outbreak of war, if that indeed was in his job description.

"I am fine," Sherlock whispered though this time it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else.

"No Sherlock, you are in denial. This is exactly what you were like while you were on drugs." Suddenly all the air was sucked from the room and Mycroft knew he had gone too far and any hope of getting Sherlock to admit to anything was lost. "I apologise Sherlock, the doctor should be along soon then hopefully we should be able to start sorting this entire thing out."

Awkward silence filled the room as it had done before Mycroft entered. Despite being furious at his brother's presence and words Sherlock was struggling to stay awake. He was battling the after effects of the seizure and the symptoms of his unknown ailment and he was losing. It would have been amusing watching his head loll if the situation was not so potentially devastating. Eventually Sherlock lost, his chin dropped to his chest, eyes falling shut, and his grip on the basin loosened and John quickly whisked it away.

It was not long before the doctor arrived, looking exceptionally flustered, much to John's surprise. In his experience of hospitals it was almost impossible to get time with a doctor and, unless the patient's heart was stopping, they never ran into a room as this one had essentially done. But Mycroft was involved so that did change things slightly. "I am, er, I'm Dr Janssen, your brother's doctor. I've received a phone call to, um sorry; I got called to tell me to take a special interest in this case. Mycroft nodded, obviously knowing exactly where that phone call came from.

"Yes, and you will continue to take a special interest until Sherlock is better or I feel there is a doctor which can treat him more effectively. Now, this is Dr John Watson and DI Gregory Lestrade, my brother's friends," he commented gesturing to both of the men respectively. "Tell us what you can about Sherlock's condition." The doctor looked a bit unsure before obviously forcing himself to appear more confident.

"Sir, I do not feel comfortable disclosing information whilst the patient is still unconscious." A mixed expression of frustration and respect crossed the elder Holmes' face.

"He woke up a few minutes ago but he is now sleeping. As much as I respect your desire to protect my brother's confidentiality I regret to inform you that if you do not tell me I have other means of finding out. Where do you think that phone call came from?" Mycroft asked giving Dr Janssen a meaningful look. "Also, as you just said, my brother is sleeping and I am a family member. You are well within your rights to tell me what is going on as it is logical to assume my brother would want me to be privy to such information. I can get you the relative legislation if you wish but I am sure that will not be necessary." John had to work hard not to scoff at Mycroft claiming Sherlock would want him to know about his illness.

Dr Janssen looked a little hesitant at first before finally seeming to give in. As he spoke he soon grew in confidence as they crossed into his field of expertise. "We do not know much at the moment. As you know Sherlock was taken in with an unexplained seizure and exhibited severe bruising. When he came in was hypoglycaemic which could explain the seizure but it is very unlikely. We have given him a sugar solution which should have put his blood sugar levels back up. We have taken some blood for testing and we'll check his blood glucose levels very soon. When he wakes up I will need to take a history off him to see what other symptoms he has been exhibiting. We also require a urine and stool sample," he said placing two specimen cups on the table by Sherlock's bed. "And depending on what the results of the blood test show we will run more tests but considering the seizure he will likely need a lumbar puncture."

A deafening silence filled the room. Everyone in the room knew that whatever was ailing Sherlock was not a good thing, by any luck it would be easy to treat but that was the best they could hope for. Eventually Mycroft asked the question everyone was dying to know the answer to. "And what do you think is wrong with him, given what you have seen?" He asked in a manner which indicated he didn't really want to know the answer but at the same time he had to know.

"I would rather not answer that question Mr Holmes, it is better not to guess as it often causes unnecessary worry." John looked at Mycroft and furrowed his brow. The elder Holmes still stood stoically but he could see worry playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was the most emotional that John had ever seen him, he looked almost unsure of himself.

"Dr Janssen," John spoke deciding Mycroft needed a quick break from being in charge. "I am a doctor, trust me, I am already thinking up all sorts of possible scenarios, I doubt you could say anything which could cause me any more worry." The doctor sighed, obviously not happy but knowing that the three men in the room needed to hear all possibilities.

"Well as I said I do not know a lot. I don't know much about his other symptoms as I have not had a chance to ask him about them. However, that type of bruising is often associated with some kind of blood disorder and the hand which wouldn't stop bleeding would also point towards a blood disorder. The seizure is a bit odd though, it could have been caused by his low blood sugar levels or something passing into his central nervous system or something else entirely. But please, that is just me speculating so don't take it as a diagnosis. It is highly likely there is something else going on. If he has been ill recently, stressed perhaps, and had a bit of a fall that could cause the same symptoms. We won't know anything until the tests come back."

"How long will that take?" Lestrade asked, trying to process all that he had heard.

"The blood counts won't take too long; they should be through the lab in a couple of hours. The other ones will take about a day unfortunately." The three men looked at each other worriedly as Dr Janssen stood by and watched. "I am sorry," he said awkwardly. "I do have other patients but I will come down and let you know as soon as the first test results come in." Mycroft nodded his consent for the doctor to leave.

"If he requires specialist treatment Dr Janssen I would like a list of specialists in the necessary field. You have to understand that only the best will be treating my brother." The doctor hastily agreed before practically running out of the door. He seemed to realise pretty quickly that he was not dealing with the average family that he would have been trained for.

* * *

Donovan and Anderson shoved their stuff into their locker hastily. It had been a long day for them; Lestrade was at the hospital which meant that they had to get through all the urgent paperwork that he would have had to get through. "I blame the Freak for all this," Anderson grumbled realising he should have been home two hours ago. "I had a table booked for us and everything but he just went ahead and made us miss it." Sally glared at him, she wasn't a fan of the Consulting Detective, everyone was aware of that, but he had saved Lestrade from being stabbed by the madman; that had to count for something.

"I hope he is ok," she commented, trying to placate Anderson's anger before it really got going. He was not pleasant for her to be around when he was angry. "Having a seizure must be awful."

"Serves him right if you ask me," Anderson grumbled and Donovan slammed her locker shut and glared at him. Not liking someone was one thing but wishing something like that on them was quite something else.

"Come on, he practically saved Lestrade's life. You have to give him credit for that," she said angrily causing the forensics officer to turn and face her.

"You know him; you can't actually think he did that for anything other than selfish purposes. What, has he turned human or something all of a sudden? No, he did it because no officer other than Lestrade would be stupid enough to let him help with cases let alone let him on a crime scene. No, he needs Lestrade for his addiction."

"And what about the seizure?" Sally asked knowing it was not worth arguing about Sherlock's motivation for saving Lestrade's life. "You can't seriously wish a seizure on someone can you?"

"I said it served him right, he probably just started the drugs up again and overdosed. Are you developing a soft spot for the Freak Sally? Didn't think he was really your type."

"Shut up!" she growled. "I don't need to like him to give him credit where he deserves it. He did a good thing saving Lestrade like that and it was obviously difficult for him, he's been ill recently, that much is plain as day." Anderson narrowed his eyes at the woman he had planned to have a romantic evening with.

"Well if you're so concerned about that weirdo spend the night with him instead." With that he stalked off leaving Sally seething in the locker room. She then decided that perhaps paying the detective a visit was not such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Upon arriving at the hospital Sally realised that she had probably arrived at the most inopportune time. It was about nine at night and she realised that she might not be able to actually go up to Sherlock's room but thought she may be able to get an update on how he was doing at the very least. However at the reception she was met by a disgruntled looking nurse who mumbled something about people never paying attention to the visiting hours but was then told she may as well go up as the room was filled with people who refused to leave anyway.

Hastily she left to search for Sherlock's room, eager to get away from the obviously frustrated woman. When she did eventually make it up it was to a bit of a strange sight. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, looking greyer than she was sure was good for him, arguing with John who stood at the foot of his bed, leaning on the railing. The source of their argument was the food on the plate on Sherlock's lap and going by the look of it she didn't blame the man for not wanting to eat it. Then who she presumed was Mycroft Holmes, was sitting in the corner having stolen the table from by Sherlock's bed, working away on some file though obviously half listening to the conversation around him. And then there was Lestrade who was standing there, not doing anything other than observing, and his face bore an expression of both concern and amusement.

Tentatively she knocked at the door drawing the attention of all of the men in the room. Sherlock glared at her whereas everyone else gazed at her in surprise. "I won't stay long," she said awkwardly as she walked into the room. It looked weird to see the usual great and powerful detective sick and fragile in a hospital bed but she was very careful not to stare, though she was fairly sure she looked uncomfortable as hell. She certainly felt it. "I just wanted to see how you were getting on." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something which was almost certainly insulting before being reduced to a coughing fit. Automatically Lestrade poured a glass of water from a jug and handed it to John who handed it to Sherlock when he was done. Sherlock took it, albeit grudgingly, and started to sip at the water whilst Mycroft watched the proceedings with mild fascination.

"He's not doing brilliant," John supplied after giving up the little hope he had of Sherlock answering the question himself. "But he would be doing better if he ate since he has just had a seizure," he added meaningfully causing glazed eyes to glare at him. Despite the seriousness of the situation she found herself chuckling, Sherlock and John's dynamic had not seemed to have changed in the slightest. John, ever the doctor, was desperately trying to get the younger man to take care of himself and Sherlock was resisting him every step of the way.

Her moment of mirth did not last long however, the smile quickly faded as she saw concern etch itself into the elder Holmes' face. "I have news," an unknown voice said from behind her. She turned to see who she presumed was the detective's doctor. The man wore the same expression she wore when she had to break bad news, the one of professional calm, and even though she wanted to know what was wrong she knew she could not be in the room when they found out. This could potentially be a devastating moment for Sherlock, judging by the expression on the doctor's face anyway, and he would not want to share the moment with her.

Wordlessly she left the room and Dr Janssen let her past before heading over to the bed, chart in hand. Mycroft rose from where he had been sitting and stood next to the head of the bed and Sherlock leant away from him, unconsciously trying to avoid his touch. Nervously he began to scratch the crook of his elbow; a nervous habit he had gained after years of being a drug user. John stood stoically where he had been before and Lestrade came up next to him looking incredibly worried. The air in the room seemed frozen and nothing which lay outside of that hospital room seemed to matter, the hustle and bustle outside seemed to become muted and far away. They all knew that whatever the chart said was not good news.

"Your blood counts have come back from the lab Mr Holmes and they weren't what we had hoped to see. Your white blood cell count is well above the normal range but your platelets and red blood cells are way below what we would like them to be. This means you are anaemic so will explain if you've been feeling dizzy at all, and the low platelets will explain the severe bruising. Unfortunately these results are what we would expect from many forms of cancer so we are going to need to check you out to see if you do have cancer and, if you do, what type it is. Because the numbers on your blood work are so extreme we are going to have to do that tonight I am afraid. We'll need to take a medical history but I'll do that in the morning. Once everything is down to the lab we'll have to wait a while for the results to come through anyway."

The doctor's spiel left everyone in a stunned silence. Sherlock was gripping the blanket around him so hard his hands were shaking and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously about in his throat but his expression remained bored as it always did unless there was an exciting case going on. Mycroft was the same as Sherlock in that his expression remained the same and the only tells which indicated there was anything wrong were extremely hard to spot. He held his umbrella slightly more firmly than he usually would and his eyes flickered about more as he tried to think of possible solutions to this latest problem.

Lestrade and John were not sure what to do with themselves, they wanted to move about to help them think but they couldn't so instead had to be satisfied with tapping their feet and playing with their hands. It wasn't confirmed but Sherlock very likely had cancer. John was a doctor and he knew that they did not make statements like that unless they are fairly certain that it is the truth. But it couldn't be right; they had to have messed something up somewhere or something. Sherlock Holmes did not get sick and he most certainly did not get cancer. He wasn't supposed to be reduced to being a patient in a hospital who was dependent on people for everything. Sherlock was incredibly independent and did not need anyone's help with anything. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, should not be in hospital, he should be out solving crimes and terrifying victims into talking quickly. But with the way he looked he would not be scaring anyone any time soon. Perhaps he did have cancer but John would not believe it until there was an official diagnosis.

"W-what tests are you going to have to do?" John stuttered, the gravity of the situation somehow seemed to wash all his medical knowledge away from him.

"We'll need a bone marrow biopsy and a lumbar puncture just in case it is cancer and it has spread into his central nervous system. I'll need to give you a physical too Mr Holmes just to check for anything else which might give us a clue as to what is wrong with you." At this Sherlock's whole body tensed as a wave of anxiety washed through him. Mycroft seemed to notice this and turned to the doctor.

"I am sorry Dr Janssen; could you give us a moment?" Mycroft asked, his voice sickly sweet.

"Yes, of course," he said hurriedly. The elder Holmes still unnerved him a great deal. "I have some paper work I need to fill in so I'll be back in about an hour with a nurse to carry out the tests." And with that he left.

* * *

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. The word flowed constantly through his mind as if to tease him. It hurt to think it because, despite all his denials, he knew it was true. The symptoms fit, he knew enough about medicine to know that. But why did he have it? He was young, relatively healthy; sure he used to smoke a lot but… cancer. He would never get used to hearing that word when referring to him. Cancer, why did he have cancer of all things? Cancer was dull, illness in general was dull. John would fuss, Mycroft would worry and be annoying and who knew how Lestrade would react. Or Molly even, or Mrs Hudson. He didn't want them to know, they'd come and they'd fuss because for some reason they cared. Well they seemed to care when he could work, when he could function, but perhaps it would be different when he was completely useless.

And what about John? The thought of John leaving made him feel sick to the stomach and for a moment considered grabbing the emesis basin. Would John leave? Mycroft wouldn't, he was obligated as Sherlock's elder brother to stay, but John had no obligation, and neither did Lestrade.

Sherlock tried to stop thinking; he did not want to go down that line of thought. But it turned out he couldn't help it. He had seen cancer patients before; he knew that sometimes the treatment was worse than the disease itself. That cancer was in fact a horrible disease which could degrade its victim's, leaving none of their privacy intact, before killing them off or leaving them scarred for the rest of their life. He would rather die than let himself endure that humiliation, but he had a funny feeling that he would not be allowed to die of his own accord. But he was thinking too much, they didn't even know if it was cancer yet. But that was his curse, he always thought too much and there was no way to make it stop.

It was then that Sherlock realised that the doctor had been talking the whole time. "We'll need a bone marrow biopsy and a lumbar puncture just in case it is cancer and it has spread into his central nervous system. I'll need to give you a physical too Mr Holmes just to check for anything else which might give us a clue as to what is wrong with you." Sherlock felt his whole body tense up. A physical meant that the doctor would be touching him; the idea of his prying fingers touching him when he did not want to be touched made his skin crawl. The detective shivered, trying to shake off the imaginary fingers. The younger man did not notice when the doctor left nor did he notice when people started talking and asking him questions, he didn't even notice when reassuring hands began rubbing his shoulders before quickly being shaken off.


	5. Blood like water

_Hi all, I know, long time no speak. I am very sorry for that by the way, I blame exams… which are now over by the way. This means that I am on holiday for about a month so hopefully I will update more. Which means no painfully long waits for you! :D Also, I am sorry for not replying to reviews, I do like replying to them because it means I get to express my gratitude to all my reviewers. But it had been so long since I updated when I started writing this I thought everyone would just prefer it if I got on with it and wrote. Don't worry, next time I will reply to everyone I can reply to. By the way that was a not so subtle hint for you all to leave me a review. :D_

_So I hope this chapter was worth the wait, I apologise if it is not. I can't decide if I like this chapter or not so I just put it up before I decided I wanted to rewrite the whole thing. The first thousand words have been written about four different times. Anyway, on with the show, I hope you enjoy…_

**Fragile**

**Chapter 5- Blood like water**

He tried; he really did, to cooperate with his examination. He knew in his heart of hearts that what they were doing was designed ultimately to help him so he made a conscious effort not to flinch away from their touches. He couldn't help it; they were touching, poking, prodding, listening as if he was nothing more than a scientific specimen. At first he thought that he would prefer it that way, there was nothing personal in it so therefore nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be embarrassed about. But then he found himself sitting on the side of the bed in nothing but his underwear, vulnerable, as several pairs of eyes scrutinised his scrawny and battered body and he began to feel ever so slightly nervous.

The Detective had told all his visitors to leave as they performed their tests; it was bad enough the medical staff seeing him in his weakened state. It would be even worse if the people he cared about saw his body in its less than pristine condition. He did not want to see the disgust in their eyes and more than anything he did not want to see them leave him. Now they were gone and he was no more than a patient that required treatment and Sherlock found himself longing for John's comforting presence. Or even Lestrade's because Lestrade had seen him sick before, true it had been the drugs and of his own doing, but perhaps he wouldn't leave as quickly as the others. Sherlock knew he couldn't risk it though. He also liked to think that John would not abandon him at the first sign of trouble but he just could not be sure. The army doctor enjoyed action and excitement, neither of which he could provide. Even if he didn't intend to at first he would leave, everyone always left eventually. The mere fact that the army doctor had stuck with him for so long was something Sherlock was infinitely grateful for. And anyway, Sherlock didn't even want to think what they would say if they saw his arms.

And what would Molly say? She admired him, he knew this, but she looked up to him because he wore a façade that conveyed confidence. He knew that façade was going to be hard to maintain so would she walk out on him too?

There were probing hands touching him, their chill searing into his skin and it was all he could do not to flinch away from the touch. He hated people touching him, John and Lestrade had learned quickly not to touch him unless absolutely necessary. Even then they made sure he knew it was going to happen, usually he would just flinch at an unexpected touch but on the occasional bad day he would hit whoever made contact with him. He didn't do it on purpose, it would just happen. Mycroft was not the touching kind of person so he had never proved a problem for Sherlock.

The touches of his friends were one thing but these people were strangers, their touches cold yet intimate. The detective did not want to deal with this so he went to his mind palace. It had served him as a safe haven on many occasions and he was sure it could help him again. Once in his mind palace he was no longer aware of the touches much to his relief but voices reverberated off the stone walls and marble floors. He presumed it was the voices of the doctor and the nurses making their way into his subconscious so he ignored them, it was easy enough to do. As the world's only consulting detective he had to drown out people's idiotic ramblings on a daily basis.

Walking up the stairs he relished in the feel of the smooth wood of the banister under his fingertips. Being in hospital was dull so he was heading to a room he rarely visited, at the top of the stairs at the very end of the corridor. That was where he kept the best, most interesting cases he encountered. And by best he meant the ones he could not solve, it wasn't a large room as it didn't have to be, but it was a fascinating room. He only really visited it when there was a serious lack of cases. But it was also good in situations which made him uncomfortable as he could lose himself in it easily, rifling through old evidence and relishing in the brain work.

Finally he made it; his mind palace was large so sometimes it could take a while to get where he wanted to go. Digging deep into his pocket he pulled out a brass key, sometimes if he didn't leave the rooms locked information could get mixed up and therefore finding it again could take a while. Musty air washed over him, he smiled and stepped in. There was a large window which took up the most of one wall but he kept the curtains closed at all times, instead he worked by artificial light. If he looked out the windows of his mind palace he would see the real world, and when he went into his room of cold cases he did not want any of the distractions which the real world would provide.

* * *

Dr Janssen scribbled something on the chart before closing it, there were scars on Sherlock's arms that any medical staff treating him should be aware of. It could affect how he mentally reacted to the treatments. "Right then Mr Holmes, we are done. It is getting late so I think we will stop with the tests for today. I'll get you booked for an MRI before we do your lumbar puncture in the morning. We just want to check it is safe for you to have the procedure, no reason to think it isn't; we just like to err on the side of caution whenever possible." There was no reply, in fact Sherlock did not even look as if he had even registered that the doctor had been talking. The doctor exchanged a confused look with the two nurses before crouching down at the young man's side. "Mr Holmes, are you alright?" he asked, speaking louder than he had before. There was still no reply or even indication he had heard Dr Janssen's voice.

"Carol," he said looking up at the blonde nurse to his right. "Could you go and get the other Mr Holmes? We need to see if this is something that occurs regularly." The nurse nodded before heading quickly out of the room. "Mr Holmes, if you can hear me I need some indication that you can," he tried again with yet again no response. Concerned he pulled his penlight out and flicked it over Sherlock's open eyes. "Pupil response is normal," he commented out loud. "Help me get him back into his gown and dressing gown so we can lie him down," he said turning to the other nurse. She nodded her head and picked the gown off the drawers next to her. Just as they were lying him down Carol and Sherlock's three visitors entered the room causing Dr Janssen to glare. "I thought I said just to bring Mr Holmes," he said in frustration. Carol started a little at the reprimand, she had never heard the doctor talk like that before but she relaxed slightly when he apologised a few moments later.

"I am sorry," he commented sincerely. "I just don't want my patient getting too overwhelmed."

"They insisted…" started the nurse before being interrupted by Mycroft.

"She said there is something wrong with my brother," said the elder Holmes, his voice was calm but John could hear the worry beneath it.

"Um, yes Mr Holmes. I'm not entirely sure what it is but it must have happened during the physical."

"What do you mean 'must have'?" Mycroft demanded, beginning to question the competence of the man in charge of his brother's care.

"Well he was silent while we were doing everything. At first he was flinching away from us and then he stopped about half of the way through. He was still responding when we asked him to do things like lifting his arms. But when I tried to talk to him after there was no indication he had even heard me. Has anything like this happened before?"

Both Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged knowing looks and John looked at them with a mixture of worry and confusion. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"Mind palace," replied Lestrade slowly and sadly. "He has gone to his mind palace; that is what we presume anyway, he never tells us what happens when he goes like this."

"No," replied John. "I have seen him go to his mind palace, it doesn't look like this. He moves his hands about, and he is talking. He does not go, like… well, catatonic or whatever the hell this is anyway."

"He gets like this is situations where he feels trapped, that is probably the best way to describe it," Mycroft replied, his eyes never leaving the thin form of his little brother. "This is all speculation, he has never actually talked about this to anyone you must understand. We believe that he can go deep into his mind palace as a means of escape; he's never there for more than six hours. It hasn't happened in a while either. This has happened once since you moved in with him John and that was when you were away in Ireland that time. No matter what he says to you do not underestimate what you mean to him Dr Watson."

Both of the doctors stood gaping at the elder Holmes. John because he had never heard a Holmes being so sentimental and Dr Janssen because he had absolutely no idea what the men were talking about. All he managed to really pick up on was that his patient had gone like this before and the men who knew about it did not seem particularly concerned, just saddened.

"So is he ok?" Dr Janssen asked, picking up Sherlock's chart ready to write the incident down. Mycroft looked up and smiled insincerely.

"As far as this incident is concerned doctor, yes he is fine," Mycroft replied. Quickly the doctor scribbled something down, nodding to the nurses to indicate that they could leave.

"I am going to perform a lumber puncture on your brother tomorrow Mr Holmes. I did plan on it tonight but I think it might just prove too stressful for him. This procedure necessitates that he has an MRI beforehand to make sure the procedure is safe so I will book him in and let you know what time it is scheduled for."

"What is it you are looking for?" Mycroft asked; taking a pocket watch out of his jacket and flicking it open, he was the very picture of nonchalance.

"He had an unexplained seizure and likely has some form of cancer; we need to check to see if anything has made it into his cerebrospinal fluid. If it has we will need to start treatment as fast as possible to prevent any permanent damage."

"Thank you Dr Janssen, you have been very helpful. You may leave now." The doctor nodded, he did not like the way he had just been dismissed but he was very much aware that he was not dealing with people who could be considered normal so he would make allowances. He was about to step out the door before he remembered something.

"One last thing Mr Holmes, I would like to refer him to a psychiatrist. This," he said gesturing to Sherlock lying still in the hospital bed, "whatever it is he is doing right now to escape, it's not good. It does not indicate good mental health. I think if he spoke to someone it might help." John and Lestrade smirked, they couldn't help it, and Mycroft waved his hand as if to say 'go ahead'.

"If you think it would help then you are welcome to try. Sherlock is not the talkative type however, and I assure you he will simply bulldoze over whoever you refer him to. They will likely need therapy after."

Dr Janssen nodded and left the room. He was going to take that as permission to refer the younger Holmes. He was sure the elder Holmes was merely exaggerating his brother's behaviour. If Sherlock didn't want to talk to the psychiatrist then he didn't have to. Therapy was worth a try anyway, it could make Sherlock's treatment a hell of a lot easier.

* * *

It was five hours later that Sherlock re-emerged from what they assumed was his mind palace. Lestrade had gone, saying he had to go back to the Yard to fill in a report and then he was going to go home and sleep as he started work at six the following morning. Mycroft had left a couple of hours later having been called back into the office but he did first ask if John was alright and then made sure he knew he was under no obligation to stay with Sherlock. John knew he was under no obligation and he knew it would not be feasible to sleep in a hospital chair every night. But just while nobody was sure what was happening he wanted to be there for his friend. He still had no job; he had nowhere else to be but by his friend's side.

At about one in the morning he had a bit of a guilt ridden conversation with Mrs Hudson. She had called, asking if he knew where Sherlock was. John could have hit himself, as far as she was concerned he was still staying at Harry's. Apparently she had stayed up waiting for him to come in, thinking John was still away, and was worried when she didn't hear anything from him. She also wanted to know if she should make him something to eat for when he came in. John smiled at how much she seemed to care for his younger friend. Of course he explained everything to her, well not everything; he didn't explain the possibility of cancer. He just told her he was in hospital but he was doing ok and that he was staying the night in Sherlock's room. Once he had explained Mrs Hudson told him she thought he wasn't looking well earlier and then scolded John for not keeping her informed and telling him he must tell her when he found out anything else. Her voice softened before hanging up, telling John if he needed anything just to give her a ring and that she was planning on dropping by at about ten in the morning.

When Sherlock finally re-emerged from his mind John was half asleep, feet propped up on Sherlock's bed, arms folded and head bent forward so his chin was resting against his chest. But when Sherlock started laughing gleefully his army training kicked in and he jumped out of his chair, wide awake. It took him a moment to realise what he was hearing and it definitely was not what he expected. But he lived with Sherlock Holmes; he had learned to expect the unexpected. "Sherlock! What is it?" he asked loudly, voice threaded with concern.

"I solved it John," he said, smiling up at his best friend. "The cold case, I worked on it for weeks and I couldn't solve it. But then I looked through the witness statements and now I know, you need to call Lestrade." The detective tried to pull himself up but his body seemed to remember that it was actually unwell and he collapsed back against the pillow. All the glee that had been spread across his face quickly washed away leaving him with a grimace of both pain and frustration.

"Talk to me mate," John said, sitting back down and pulling his chair closer to the bed. He just hoped that none of the nurses heard the commotion outside; he felt Sherlock needed some privacy at that moment.

"There was a case, years and years ago, before I met you. It was a particularly interesting serial killer. I worked on it for a couple of months but I couldn't solve it. Lestrade made me drop it; he said I was wearing myself down with it and that he needed me on other cases. Everyone else had given up on it, but I've solved it John, I've solved it." It looked like Sherlock was going to try and get up again so John pressed his shoulder gently to stop him getting up and Sherlock shied away from the touch.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but you need to rest, you're sick." Before Sherlock could protest John carried on talking. "How could you solve it, I mean you haven't got any of the evidence available?" Sherlock shot John a withering look, if hadn't been for the hospital bed John wouldn't have known there was anything wrong with him at that moment.

"I looked through the evidence before Lestrade put it away."

"There must be quite a lot of it though, nobody could remember that much in so much detail after several years, not even you." Sherlock smirked, he knew John was perfectly aware of his memory capabilities but he wouldn't call John out on it since he liked the attention. He tapped his head and smiled.

"Mind palace John, it's all in there."

"Is that where you have been all this time, your mind palace?" Sherlock nodded in confirmation. "Normally when you're there though you can talk to people, you don't like it but you do. This time you didn't hear what anyone was saying to you." John tried to sound as casual as he could, if Sherlock knew he was prying he would probably stop talking all together. Frankly the doctor was astonished Sherlock had told him as much as he had. His mind palace was immensely private to him; he was probably worried if he told anyone too much about it then it would be ruined.

Sherlock shrugged at John's comment. "I was in the cold case room; it is a long way from the entrance, the further I am away the less likely it is I will consciously hear what is said to me." John nodded, so apparently Mycroft and Lestrade had been right.

Sherlock frowned; he wasn't sure why he was divulging all of this to John. People were lucky if he told them that his mind palace existed, he had never even given anyone the slightest indication of what it was like inside before. But John asked and he just told him and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

A few moments of silence passed between the two friends, they both looked up at each other at the same time and John smirked. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, drawing his eyebrows together as he tried to figure out what John found so amusing.

"Oh um, no, it's nothing really. It's just you should have seen that doctor's face; he had no idea what was going on. Well nor did I for that matter but he looked like he thought Mycroft was going to have him shot." This caused Sherlock to chuckle in response and John joined it, it felt normal.

A few moments later the laughter was cut short as Sherlock descended into a short-lived coughing fit which was quickly followed by a big yawn. Once again John became painfully aware of the purple smudges and the large bags under Sherlock's eyes. He smiled sadly at his friend. "Get some sleep mate."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not tired."

"Of course you're not. But try and get some sleep anyway, tomorrow will be busy. You're scheduled for an MRI tomorrow." At this Sherlock visibly tensed but John pretended not to notice.

"What time is it at?"

"I'm not sure actually, I'll go and ask someone. I'll be back in a minute." He slid his chair backwards and stood up, pulling his shirt straight. He fought to suppress a yawn, he was exhausted and sleeping in a plastic chair just wasn't helping on that front. As quietly as he could he slipped out of the room and took a few moments to compose himself. Seeing Sherlock like that, so obviously weak but fighting to hide it was just not natural and it was a sight he would never forget. And at the mention of the MRI he'd seen how Sherlock's muscles tensed and how his relaxed expression dropped off his face to be replaced by one of cold indifference. It could only mean one thing; Sherlock was afraid but was battling to hide it. And if Sherlock Holmes was afraid then it could be nothing good that would follow.

When John returned to the room ten minutes later, coffee in hand, Sherlock was fast asleep.

* * *

At 7:30 Sherlock was gently awoken by a nurse who had placed a tray of food on the table next to the bed. All it bore was two slices of toast and a cup of tea. Even the scent of the toast made Sherlock feel nauseous and he swallowed as bile threatened to crawl its way up his throat. "You're scheduled for an MRI at nine and then a lumbar puncture at twelve Mr Holmes. I'm afraid you won't be allowed to eat anything else after this until the procedure has been carried out." Sherlock glared, she was overly cheery and it made his head hurt. He looked around desperately for John, he had gone but his jacket was still draped over the chair, he'd probably gone to the cafeteria for breakfast or gone to the toilet. Speaking of which going to the toilet probably wasn't such a bad idea. But the nurse was already setting out the tray in front of him; he needed to get rid of her.

It didn't take much really; she was a student nurse on placement who had obviously been given the easy job of delivering food to the patients. Going by her age and relative level of competency he'd guess she was in her third year, but still, she had very little experience and therefore little experience of less cooperative patients. He looked her up and down and smirked. "Does your boyfriend know you're pregnant?" he asked casually and she looked up at him sharply.

"I am not pregnant."

"Oh, that is where you are wrong. I'd say you are at least three months pregnant and have been suffering regular morning sickness so there is no way you don't know. You denied it though, rather emphatically, which indicates to me you are ashamed. This means that your boyfriend is not the father." The student nurse flinched as if she had been struck and Sherlock smirked, knowing he had hit the nail on the head. "Hmm, definitely not the father. What does he do, your boyfriend? I'm going to go with navy, something in the armed forces anyway, spending long periods of time away from you. You got lonely, yes; that is definitely it. And what are your parents going to say, they're traditionalists aren't they? Obvious. And your boyfriend is going to know you have been sleeping with someone else too, quite the predicament you've gotten yourself into. But why don't you abort the child? You obviously don't believe that abortion is right. It amuses me that you uphold such morals but it is in fact your lack of morals that got yourself into this situation in the first place."

The nurse gave him a look which was full of anger but the upset that she was feeling due to her predicament was evident, simmering just underneath the anger, ready to emerge at any moment. Carefully she put down what she was doing and walked to the door. "I am going to request a more qualified and experienced nurse work with you," she said flatly before leaving the room.

Sherlock didn't really care what she said. Carefully he pulled himself out of bed, knowing that he was still unsteady on his feet, tipped his toast into the bin, and slowly he made his way to the adjacent bathroom. He didn't realise how much he needed to use the toilet but when he thought about it he hadn't gone since he had taken his seizure the day before.

While he was going he had to lean against the wall, he was feeling incredibly dizzy and very sick but it wouldn't be long before he got to lie down again. Not that he would admit it to anyone but he was already feeling exhausted from his days activity.

When he was done he flushed the toilet and turned to wash his hands. He did not make it to the sink. Suddenly his world exploded into a mixture of blurred colours that seemed to swirl around his head. His head seemed to be pounding but thankfully the pain only lasted a few seconds before he fell unconscious to the floor.

* * *

John hurried back from the cafeteria, he had only intended going down to get a coffee but when he got there he remembered how hungry he was, not that the food was particularly appetising. In the end he practically inhaled an omelette before going to find somewhere he could get a toothbrush. He was looking for about a quarter of an hour before he realised that unless he was a patient there was no way he was getting to clean his teeth that day. So he grabbed another cup of coffee before heading back up to Sherlock's room. His MRI was booked for about nine that morning so the nurses were probably waking him up. When John had left his room he was still well out of it.

Once he made it back to Sherlock's room the bed was messy and empty. There was an empty plate and a full cup of tea sitting on the table by his bed which just did not seem right. If anything he would have expected it to be the other way around. "Are you in the toilet Sherlock?" John shouted, dropping down into the seat in which he had spent the night. There was no reply but John did not pursue the matter, he knew some people didn't like talking when they were in the bathroom, not that Sherlock seemed to have a particular problem talking to him when he was in the toilet. Either way he sat there for a few minutes but grew worried when he heard no sound from the bathroom. Standing up he headed over to the door. "Are you alright in there Sherlock?" he asked, when there was no reply he tried the door, it was locked. Thankfully patient bathrooms could be unlocked from the outside so John unlocked the door and opened it.

Immediately he ran to his friend's side, he was lying on the floor surrounded by blood. It didn't look like he had hit his head on the way down, miraculously, but there was a lot of blood coming from his nose, it almost looked like it was flowing. Quickly his fingers found the pulse point on Sherlock's neck and he was relieved to find it steady. As soon as he was sure Sherlock was not about to die he ran to the door and shouted for help. In less than a minute the room was buzzing with activity and John could only stand by and watch as Sherlock's limp body was man-handled back into bed, he was like a rag doll. How he would hate it if he were still conscious.

* * *

_I'm sorry for the cliff hanger; hopefully I won't be leaving you waiting for too long this time. And it's not a particularly big cliff hanger, just a small one. Also, I did intend on revealing Sherlock's illness in this chapter but I got carried away with the writing… again. I think that next chapter will be the chapter! So I hope you enjoyed this and please, don't forget to review. They really do keep me going. _


	6. Not all news is good news

_So this update did not take quite as long as the others. I hoped to get it up before the first episode of series 3 aired (I'm not going to give anything away but for those who have not seen it but I will say you are in for a treat) but obviously I failed at that. But that is not the point, at least I am updating and you have not been waiting for quite as long ;)_

_And once again thank you to all who have reviewed. I would like to thank the guest who reviewed because they were incredibly complimentary and I could not reply to them in person *grumbles in frustration*. Thank you so, so much for your review, it made me so happy when I read it. I hope that you enjoy this chapter as much as you enjoyed the others._

_Now I have gotten another ridiculously long author's note out of the way let's get on with the story. I apologise in advance for the cliffie at the end. Please, do not forget to review!_

**Fragile**

**Chapter 6- Not all news is good news**

"Mr Acerbi, it is 3am and I am not a patient man," Mycroft said in an icy tone of voice causing a shiver to run down the spine of the man on the other end of the video call. It was almost imperceptible but Mycroft, being a Holmes, noticed. There was a knock at his office door and he looked at Anthea who was poking her head around the door and he waved her in. "As I was saying," he continued. "I am not a patient man, you will release our men and put them on the first flight back to London, and if I get so much as a reason to believe that they have been harmed there will be hell to pay." The foul looking man laughed and looked straight into the eyes of Mycroft whose expression remained stony and unwavering.

"And why would I do that, Mr Holmes?" the Italian asked, smirking, believing that he had the upper hand.

"Because I know your reputation and I know that if I do not see our men within twenty four hours you will have killed them in an attempt to extract information. If this happens I will order for your, what shall we call it, company to be destroyed. And if you flee you will be killed, it is as simple as that. We cannot risk you actually gleaning information from our men."

"Your Prime Minister will never authorise it, not when you might be killing British citizens." At this Mycroft gave a sickly sweet smile which made the Italian shudder, that expression was terrifying.

"The Prime Minister is not the only one with the authority to permit such action." Mycroft glanced up at Anthea then back at the computer screen. "If you will excuse me a moment Mr Acerbi," Mycroft said before turning off the microphone without waiting for a reply. The man's indignant protests could still be heard but the elder Holmes ignored them.

"Yes Anthea?" he asked pleasantly.

"Sorry to interrupt sir, I received a text from Dr Watson. It said, 'Sherlock was awake, you were right about the mind palace. Gone back to sleep, no need to come in.'" At this Mycroft nodded his head.

"Thank you, wait here a moment, I just need to finish off with this." She stood back slightly, hands behind her back as Mycroft turned the microphone back on.

"If you are quite finished," the elder Holmes interrupted the angry Italian. "Remember what I said about what happens if our men are not on the next available flight? I was deadly serious, emphasis on the word deadly. It was a pleasure talking to you Mr Acerbi but I hope you will forgive me for saying that I hope our paths do not meet again. Good morning." Anthea's curiosity was almost overflowing but she held in her questions, asking questions which didn't need to be asked was not part of her job description.

"Do you want me to get the car ready for you sir?" she asked calmly, determinedly keeping her face neutral.

"Yes, thank you. And if John Watson calls at any point put him straight through, you don't need to answer the call first." She nodded and left the room silently. Mycroft downed the rest of his coffee before putting on his suit jacket and coat and heading down to the car. He'd try and catch a few hours' sleep before going over to the hospital.

* * *

After years of having a minor position in the British government Mycroft could go from fast asleep to battle ready in a matter of seconds, especially when he was awoken by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. When it did ring Mycroft was instantly awake. It was John Watson which could only mean there was an update on his brother. When he first met the army doctor and told him he worried about Sherlock constantly he had not been exaggerating. Part of what made his position so attractive was the ease with which he could keep tabs on his brother who seemed to lack the ability to stay out of trouble. But now he was worrying about his brother more than ever and for once it wasn't because of his reckless behaviour or his self-destructive streek. For once it was simply his body betraying him.

"Hello Dr Watson," he answered with not a hint of the weariness which would normally mar a person's voice if they had suddenly been awoken.

"Mycroft." As soon as Mycroft heard the worry in the doctor's voice he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he already knew he needed to get down to the hospital. "We're not sure what has happened but I think you might want to come down. Sherlock collapsed in the bathroom this morning; thankfully he didn't hit his head or anything. But they're getting his MRI done early because they think whatever it is he has is progressing more rapidly now."

"Right, I'll be down there soon. Thank you for calling me." He hung up; he really had fought to keep his voice steady there. He debated forgoing a shower but soon decided against and switched the shower on. Fifteen minutes later he emerged, fully dressed, and he had to fight the urge to run down to his car. For once he was going to drive; his driver would simply go too slowly.

* * *

John was sat in the waiting room, coffee clasped in his hands, and he was tapping his foot agitatedly. All he wanted to do was burst in to check on Sherlock but he knew it was an idiotic thing to do; they'd have to start the MRI all over again if he did that. It didn't stop him wanting to though, he was so worried it was making him feel sick and he was beginning to feel the effects of spending the night in a plastic chair with very little sleep, he knew that he would not be able to do it for another night, not unless Sherlock really needed him to.

He felt an odd sense of relief when he saw Mycroft striding in, even if he did have the audacity to look as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on. That did annoy John slightly but he didn't say anything, the simple fact that Mycroft was here and not at his office spoke volumes about the concern he was feeling for his little brother.

"He is just getting the scan done now and then they will take him back to his room to get the lumbar puncture done. They're working quickly so they are obviously worried." Mycroft nodded and gave John a smile, it was an odd smile. It was like the sickly sweet one he gave when he was trying to be diplomatic but there was definitely something akin to sadness underlying it.

"Thank you for staying with him last night Dr Watson, and for keeping me informed."

"You know Mycroft we have known each other quite some time now, you don't need to keep calling me Dr Watson."

"Yes, quite," Mycroft replied disparagingly. "Anyway, he talked to you about going to his mind palace did he?" Mycroft didn't even bother to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"Well he didn't say much but that isn't surprising, he is Sherlock after all. He just told me that is where he goes. Speaking of which we should really get Greg on the phone, he said something about solving a case but he was a bit worked up at the time, it didn't make a lot of sense."

* * *

"Mr Holmes, can you hear me?" a tinny sounding voice asked. Sherlock blinked his eyes as he awoke and emitted a deep sounding groan, why did his body ache so much? A great expanse of white stretched out above him and he tried to sit up from his horizontal position but he could not, his head was strapped down. As a detective he had been kidnapped before and woken up strapped down to something but this was different. It smelt different and there was a loud hum resonating around him. Flicking his eyes from side to side he realised he was in some kind of white tube, it was most curious, and then suddenly it clicked. He was in the MRI machine and it was at this point that he felt his heart beginning to pound.

"Mr Holmes," said the tinny voice again. It was loud but he was not paying much attention to it. "I need you to stay calm and remain still. I know that this must be quite disorientating for you but we are almost done with the scan. If you move too much now we will need to start again." The tinny voice made Sherlock angry, what the hell was the owner of the voice thinking? That he was trying to panic? The man was an idiot.

But the idiot was right, they were almost done and a couple of minutes later the surface which Sherlock was lying on slid out from the machine and someone appeared from a side room and released him from the straps which were holding him down. "I am very sorry you had to wake up like that," the man said. So he was the idiot with the tinny voice which didn't sound quite so tinny now it wasn't coming through a speaker. "I am Dr Sawyer; we're just going to take you back up to your room now. Dr Janssen is on his way in; when he has arrived the lumbar puncture will be performed."

At that moment someone appeared with a wheelchair and Sherlock glared angrily at it. "I'm not getting in that," he said in a voice which left little room for argument. But as Sherlock had earlier deduced Dr Sawyer was an idiot and so did try and argue with the Consulting Detective.

"Mr Holmes, I know you might not like it but I am afraid the only way you are getting about this hospital is in this chair, it is not safe for you to walk about I am afraid."

"Fine, then I will stay here," Sherlock replied, lying back down on the machine. Dr Sawyer looked gormlessly at his uncooperative patient.

"You can't stay here though; other patients need to use the machine."

"That's ok; I'll stay on the floor."

"Mr Holmes, I cannot allow you to do that, you need to go to your room."

At this Sherlock sat up, a manipulative smile plastered on his face. As he rose he gripped hard onto the sides of the surface he was lying on as a wave of dizziness swept over him but he ignored it. He wanted to win this battle.

"Well then, _doctor_, it looks like you have a bit of a dilemma. I will happily return to my room on foot but otherwise I am staying right here in this room. You will not get me into that damn chair unless you sedate me which I suggest you do not do. My brother would not be awfully happy." After saying this Sherlock lay back down again.

The doctor looked helplessly at the nurse who had the wheelchair. "Is Dr Watson still in the waiting room?" he asked and the nurse nodded. "Go and fetch him then, see if he can talk some sense into him." Sherlock really did not like this man. But at least John wouldn't make him suffer the indignity of a wheelchair, he might try and get him to but he would only push slightly.

Moments later John ran into the room, quickly followed by Mycroft, as they were under the illusion that something had happened to Sherlock. When John saw the detective with his eyes open he stopped and let out a sigh of relief. "Are you alright mate?" he asked, walking to Sherlock's side.

"I'm fine John."

The army doctor could tell that Sherlock was anything but fine but he did not pursue the matter, with Sherlock he learned to pick his battles. Even if he could win an argument with Sherlock it normally was not even worth the grief. "Well if you are fine why were Mycroft and I called through here?" At this Sherlock looked around frantically.

"What the hell is Mycroft doing here?" he demanded and this worried John more than anything else. The fact that Sherlock had not noticed his brother's presence was nothing short of terrifying. He was Sherlock Holmes and he simply had not noticed.

"I was concerned Sherlock," Mycroft said, walking up to join Sherlock by John's side. At this the detective scoffed.

"Sure you were. You're just worried that if something happens to me you won't be able to make me do all your legwork." Sherlock was angry and John knew they needed to calm him down. An angry Sherlock definitely was not an amiable Sherlock.

"That is enough Sherlock," John scolded causing both of the Holmes' to look up at him in surprise. "Now what is wrong?" he asked more kindly, trying hard to keep his temper in check.

"This idiot wants me to get in a wheelchair," Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock," both John and Mycroft said warningly whilst Dr Sawyer and the nurse watched, utterly bewildered.

"What?" he asked indignantly. "I'm telling the truth, the man is stupid. How he qualified as a doctor eludes me completely." John found himself stifling a chuckle at this comment but managed to suppress it, just.

"Sorry Dr Sawyer," he said turning to face the man. "Don't take it personally, he insults everyone."

"Everyone who deserves it," the detective muttered under his breath. John ignored him. "I don't know what he has threatened to do if you try to make him get in that chair but trust me, he doesn't make idle threats. I'll walk him up and we'll keep the wheelchair with us just in case."

"For goodness sake," Dr Sawyer growled in frustration. "This is madness, he collapsed this morning and he could easily collapse again. It is not worth the risk."

"Where would you like me to lie down then?" Sherlock asked yawning. "Would it be more convenient for me to lie here or on the floor? I mean I wouldn't like to get in the way." At this John did laugh and Sherlock smiled at him. It was a weak smile, he did not want to admit how much this argument was wearing him out, he hoped that it wasn't far from where he was to his room.

"Fine, fine," the doctor said in frustration. "Nurse Michelle will take the chair up if you need it. If anything happens I will not be held responsible for it." With that he left and John helped Sherlock into a sitting position with only a mild amount of protesting from the detective. "You're not going to make the staff's job easy are you?" he asked kindly and Sherlock smiled wearily.

"If they don't like me they'll treat me more efficiently to get rid of me faster." John smiled. That sounded like a very Sherlockian theory.

* * *

Ten minutes later a very disgruntled Sherlock was wheeled into his room with a bemused John and a bored looking Mycroft. "Dr Sawyer will be feeling really rather smug right now," John commented, thinking back on Sherlock's poor attempt to make it back to his room on foot. He felt a little bad for baiting his sick best friend but he couldn't resist. And anyway, Sherlock would appreciate the dose of normality even if he did not admit it.

"I don't want to see that blundering idiot of a doctor ever again," Sherlock ranted and John smiled, he knew the man was only angry because the doctor had been right. But perhaps it would be better to keep the two of them separate, in the brief time he had seen the doctor and Sherlock interacting Dr Sawyer did not appear particularly capable of working with the younger, and admittedly difficult, man.

"If he so much as touches me ever again I cannot be held responsible for my actions… don't touch me John, I am capable of getting out of a damn chair by myself!" Out of the corner of his eye John saw Mycroft shaking his head in despair but his attention was quickly diverted to Sherlock who had descended into a coughing fit which had him doubled over as his lungs threatened to expel themselves by the sheer force of his coughs. John could see each of Sherlock's vertebrae through the dressing gown; they rose far too prominently under the thin material. He was thin, far too thin.

John went to drop by his friend's side to make sure he was ok but was held back by a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked round to see Mycroft who was shaking his head. It went against every single one of his instincts but he stood back, allowing Mycroft to stand in front of his friend. The man waited patiently until Sherlock's coughs subsided. "Look at me Sherlock," Mycroft ordered sternly; it was the only tone that had any hope of working on the detective. Thankfully in his weakened state Sherlock had no energy to argue. His lips were tinged a disturbing shade of blue and John gulped at the sight, even though his lips quickly changed back to their original colour. John really hoped Sherlock was not catching another cold like he seemed to be, that was the last thing he needed when he was fighting off something else.

Mycroft stepped forward and offered Sherlock his arm but Sherlock shook his head, still breathing heavily from his coughing fit. "You will need to accept help very soon brother," the elder Holmes said sadly but conceded to Sherlock's wishes by stepping back next to John. It was all John could do to stop himself dashing forwards whilst he watched Sherlock struggle back into bed. But he made it, eventually. John resumed the position he had taken up the night before and Mycroft left to go back to the office.

* * *

"I hear you had a bit of an exciting morning this morning Mr Holmes," Dr Janssen said as he opened the packet containing the needle. It was large and it tended to scare his patients when they saw it. With the local anaesthetic it was never as bad as they anticipated.

Sherlock did not reply which was no real surprise but he kept on talking, it often helped relax his patients but also he hated a silent room. "Now Mr Holmes, we have given you the local anaesthetic and we've cleaned the area the needle is going to go in. I am going to need you to stay curled in that position for a little bit longer and you are going to need to keep very still I am afraid. This shouldn't take too long. Now, I'm going to have to touch you at this point."

Sherlock was barely listening; he had very little interest in what was going on around him. If he thought about it too much then he would start to freak out, and if he thought about the way John had looked at him when he had asked him to leave. He definitely did not want to think about that.

Sherlock felt a sting at the base of his spine and then there was an odd feeling of pressure. He could feel foreign fingers against his skin and the contact made him feel ill, it was all he could do not to be sick. Instead he began to think over some past cases but didn't retreat into his mind palace even though he desperately wanted to. He got the feeling that John would not like it and for some reason that meant a lot to him.

* * *

John Watson was not a man who enjoyed waiting for things yet he found himself, for the second time that day, waiting whilst doctors did something to his friend behind closed doors. Except this time it was worse, it had not been the doctor that insisted he leave rather Sherlock himself and that stung more than it should have. If he were honest with himself he knew that it was expected, Sherlock did not like being seen vulnerable and right now he could not get a whole lot more vulnerable. But he had held out some hope that perhaps Sherlock would let him stay, but it was Sherlock so he did not.

The doctor turned when someone sat down next to him and smiled when he saw it was his landlady. "How are you doing John?" she asked kindly. "You look like you haven't slept well."

"That is one way of putting it I suppose," he replied.

"What's going on?" she asked, she knew there was something John hadn't told her the night before but she hadn't wanted to pry then. "I know there is something you're not telling me." John shook his head; sometimes he forgot that at time Mrs Hudson was actually quite perceptive, especially when it came to her boys.

"The doctor thinks that it could be something serious but we don't know what it is. They're just doing some more tests at the moment." She nodded and patted his knee affectionately but didn't say anything else; she could tell when John didn't want to talk anymore.

* * *

When Dr Janssen and the nurses finally emerged John stood, eager to go and see his friend and Mrs Hudson followed suit. "Dr Watson," the older doctor greeted. "It went reasonably well but I don't think he is in much of a mood for talking, just to warn you."

"Ah, there is no difference to usual there then," he responded smiling. Dr Janssen smiled and left, a vial of clear fluid held in one hand. It just seemed so wrong, that fluid belonged in Sherlock's spine but it wasn't. It was in a vial, held by a doctor, going to be tested. It was going to be tested because Sherlock was sick, Sherlock was sick with something which was probably cancer. Cancer could kill his best friend and crap why was he thinking about this now? Why couldn't it all sink in when he was alone? And why the hell was it a vial of clear fluid that set it all off. Crap, crap, he didn't think he could cope with losing Sherlock, the selfish idiot better not go ahead and die on him or else he would revive him just to kill him again.

He felt a gentle hand on his arm which drew him back to reality. He blinked a few timed before meeting the worried expression on Mrs Hudson's face. "Do you need to sit down dear?" she asked kindly." He shook himself and took a deep breath.

"No Mrs Hudson, I'm fine."

"I really think you should go back to Baker Street and get some sleep; it'd do you a world of good."

"I'll go back this evening, promise," he said smiling and she couldn't help but smile back.

Together they entered Sherlock's room to find him stretched out on his back, fast asleep or at least pretending he was. Either way he was getting some of the rest that he desperately needed but he stayed that way through the whole of the afternoon and into the evening. Mrs Hudson and John spoke quietly next to the sleeping man. At one point a nurse had come in with a meal for Sherlock and left it for when he woke up, she was very nice and brought Mrs Hudson and John a cup of tea.

Every so often other nurses would pop in and check on the patient but other than that they remained undisturbed, Sherlock did not so much as stir the whole time which was both a good thing and a bit of a point of concern. Eventually Mrs Hudson left leaving John behind even though she had tried very hard to get John to return to Baker Street with her. He promised he would return later and she was holding him to it.

* * *

"John?" came a weak voice from the bed and the doctor looked over the newspaper he had been aimlessly flicking through. There was nothing interesting in it but sitting in a room with a sleeping Sherlock could only keep him entertained for so long. "John, I want to leave," Sherlock pleaded and he sounded so young, it ripped John's heart to shreds.

"I'm sorry mate; I don't think you'll be out of here for a while." There was no point in trying to soften the blow, even barely awake and disorientated Sherlock was worryingly perceptive and he would only be more upset if he thought John was trying to deceive him. The detective looked his friend up and down imploringly and once he had deduced that he was telling the truth he curled up on his side away from John. The doctor tried to get Sherlock to talk to him but of course, Sherlock refused.

* * *

At about seven Lestrade appeared, still in uniform, and he shot a concerned glance at the still curled up figure on the bed. "Everything alright?" he asked worriedly.

"Honestly I have no idea, he's been like that for just over an hour now," John replied softly. "At least he is resting, that will help him recover faster."

"Speaking of sleeping when was the last time you got any? You look like hell."

"Thanks," John replied, chuckling.

"Seriously, go home. I'll stay with him tonight; I'm not working tomorrow unless something truly terrible comes up."

"I don't…"

"John," Lestrade said warningly and it was what finally did it for John.

"Fine, fine I'm going," he conceded and stood up, popping his back as he stretched. "Text me if anything happens. Oh, I almost forgot. Earlier he was going on about some cold case, seems to think he has solved it. Just thought you would like to know," he said heading towards the door. "And thanks by the way Greg, I'll be back in the morning." Lestrade waved as the doctor left and then picked up the newspaper John had been looking at, this could be a long and boring night.

* * *

Lestrade had only been there half an hour when his phone went off, he pulled it out and read the text before growling in frustration. They were calling him back into the office. Sherlock was still asleep and it shouldn't take too long so there was no need to call John back. He did fire a text off to Mycroft though; if something did happen while he was out he didn't want to incur the wrath of the elder Holmes.

* * *

When Sherlock woke he was alone and for some reason it made him uncomfortable but he couldn't fathom why. Where was John? Panic suddenly surged up from within him, John had left and perhaps he wasn't coming back. However Sherlock quickly suppressed the panic, at least outwardly, the serious look on Dr Janssen's face when he entered did nothing to quell the panic within him. Gently he shut the door behind him and sat on the plastic chair beside Sherlock's bed. Sherlock simply looked at him, not bothering to try and sit up but the doctor did not seem to mind.

"I have news Mr Holmes," he said kindly and in that instant Sherlock knew that something was definitely wrong.

"Obviously," he responded automatically. "And it is not good."

"You are quite right there. Do you want me to call anyone so they can be her with you?" he asked. Sherlock was worried, that was never a good look to see on a doctor's face and for that reason Sherlock did not lose his temper and tell the doctor to spit it out.

"Um, no thank you," he responded, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

"Very well. We found something in your cerebrospinal fluid, we will need to perform a bone marrow biopsy for the official diagnosis but I can tell you now that you have something called acute lymphoblastic leukaemia. I'm afraid as it has progressed into the spinal fluid treatment will have to start as soon as possible so that biopsy will need to be done tonight and I will ensure that an oncologist will see you first thing in the morning. I am very sorry, this must be a lot to take in, but we are going to need to move quickly now."

Sherlock felt sick, he felt incredibly sick. Acute forms of leukaemia did not have promising mortality rates in adults, he knew that much. And even if he did survive it could leave his transport damaged permanently. "Do you want me to call anyone Mr Holmes and let them know?"

"Er, no, I'll tell them myself when they come in. Actually, would you mind giving me a moment?" he asked, purposefully trying to make his voice sound pleading and it seemed to work as Dr Janssen acquiesced. "I'll be back down in about half an hour, I'm afraid we do need to do this biopsy tonight." And with that the doctor left leaving Sherlock alone, the word leukaemia floated ominously in the room, and feeling as if he had just been handed a death sentence. Leaning over the side of the bed Sherlock hacked up some bitter bile before curling up into himself; he could not believe that this was happening to him.


	7. Tell me

_I know; another update and I only updated a week ago? I surprised myself too. Especially with the latest episode of Sherlock, so many emotions, and I am going to go ahead and pretend that I only watched it once… I won't say anymore for those of my readers who have not had the chance to see it yet. You'll see what I mean when you do though! Anyway, moving on, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm not sure if the ending classifies as a cliffhanger but I apologise if you think it does. Also, this story now has over 100 followers and that makes me ridiculously happy so thank you to all of you who contributed to that figure. And a big thank you to everyone who has reviewed and/or favourited, you make me so happy. Onto the story; please, make me happy and leave a review. _

**Fragile**

**Chapter 7- Tell me**

John's hand groped about listlessly until his fingers made contact with the smooth surface of his phone. Groggily he pulled himself into a sitting position and glanced at the caller ID, it was Mycroft which meant it was important. He had only been asleep for an hour and he desperately wanted to crawl back under the covers and sleep for an eternity. Of course he didn't do this; instead he braced himself for dealing with the elder Holmes. "What's wrong?" he asked, there was no point in beating around the bush with Mycroft and he wouldn't be phoning unless there was something wrong.

"Sorry to wake you Dr Watson, I was hoping that you would be able to go back to the hospital."

"Why, what's happened?" he demanded already pulling himself out of bed and grabbing his jeans off the floor.

"Some imbecile has misplaced my brother it would seem," Mycroft said calmly. "I am informed that hospital security is searching for him now but I was hoping you might be a little better at predicting his whereabouts than they are." There was a pause while John first took the information in and then fought the rage that boiled up within him.

"How the hell do you misplace a person?" he seethed as Mycroft listened calmly. "And where the hell was Lestrade? I left him at the hospital with Sherlock."

"Ah yes, I have called Lestrade and he is on his way. He got a text soon after you left; there was an incident at Scotland Yard which demanded his presence." The army doctor fought back his rage, he knew deep down that Lestrade would not have left Sherlock if he didn't have too; he cared about the young man too much to do that. But still, he needed someone to blame and Lestrade was his only target other than himself.

"I am having people review the CCTV footage outside the hospital to see when or if he left," Mycroft continued after deciding John wasn't going to say anything. "I am afraid that I am predisposed at the moment so will not be able to join the search, but I assure you that if he is still not found when I am free I will aid you in any way I can."

"I feel so reassured," John said sarcastically whilst fumbling with his belt, trying to do it up with only one hand and failing spectacularly. "Look, I'm going to leave you to whatever is more important than your brother's safety and I'll go deal with it myself, ok."

"Thank you Dr Watson," Mycroft said, completely un-phased. "That is most kind of you." But John didn't hear this; he had already hung up the phone.

* * *

The taxi driver looked hesitantly in his rear-view mirror, completely nonplussed by his charge's agitated behaviour. "You alright mate?" he asked, unsure of what else he should do, the blond haired man's behaviour was a little too odd to simply ignore.

"Hm?"

"I was wondering if you were alright, you seem a bit restless."

"Yeah, I'm fine, but this is kind of an emergency though." The driver mentally hit himself; of course that was why he was moving around so much, he did ask to be taken to the hospital after all.

"Sorry mate, I'll get you there as fast as I can."

"Thanks," John replied, not really listening to the driver. But to his credit the driver did get there faster than John anticipated. Muttering a thank you under his breath John practically threw a wad of notes at the man and told him to keep the change before jumping out of the taxi and running into the hospital.

In the foyer he met Lestrade who looked incredibly guilty, so much so John didn't have the heart to rant at him like he had been planning on doing. Instead he simply joined the DI and a couple of the security personnel. "John, I am so sorry," Lestrade started when he saw the doctor but John cut him off.

"We'll talk about it later, let's just find the idiot." John couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice but he did think he did admirably well considering the circumstances. He turned to look at the security guards expectantly.

"We've searched all through the hospital and we didn't find him," the shorter of the two commented regretfully. "There is a secondary search going on as we speak.

"What about outside the hospital?" Lestrade asked, his instincts as a detective beginning to kick in, temporarily masking the guilt he was feeling over leaving Sherlock by himself.

"We've looked through the CCTV footage and he has not left this hospital which is why we are doing the secondary search. We're also reviewing the footage of other possible exits. It is highly unlikely he went out through them but we thought we would look."

"Well what about the roof of the hospital, can that be accessed?" Lestrade asked curiously. The two guards looked at each other and nodded slowly.

"You need a staff pass to get through that door," the taller one commented thoughtfully. But I suppose if he stole a pass he could get access to the roof. The area doesn't have camera surveillance either." Lestrade and John exchanged knowing glances; that sounded like exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would do. "Let's go," John ordered in a tone he had rarely used since leaving the army, and it was a tone only the bravest or most foolish of men argued with. The security guards were neither brave nor foolish so they unquestioningly led Lestrade and John into the lift.

The lift ride up to the top of the hospital was tense and silent and felt like it took a lot longer than it actually did. Nobody knew what to say so nobody said anything but the tension was palpable, made even worse than the faint background music that was playing and sounding far too cheery for being in a hospital. Eventually the doors opened and they had to climb a couple of flights which eventually led them to a door, an open door through which a cool breeze blew.

"Wait here," John ordered the two security guards who once again obeyed without questioning John's authority. Both John and Lestrade walked into the cold night air, bracing themselves against the chill, and scanned the rooftop for Sherlock. At first they didn't see him but after about ten seconds John saw him huddled in the corner of the low wall, the red end of a cigarette glowing brightly in the relative darkness. The doctor headed over and Lestrade stood back, ready to intervene if necessary. One could never be sure how things would turn out when Sherlock Holmes was involved.

"You were doing so well," John commented, leaning against the wall next to where Sherlock was with his arms crossed lightly across his chest.

"Well I've realised there is no point in trying to look after myself if my transport is going to betray me anyway." John snorted mirthlessly.

"You, look after yourself? Now there is something I would like to see." In response Sherlock put the cigarette back in his mouth and inhaled deeply, sighing in contentment just before John grabbed it from his mouth. Quickly he stubbed it out and chucked it over the side of the building before Sherlock could do anything to stop him. As a result he got a death glare before Sherlock removed a half empty packet from the pocket of his dressing gown as well as a lighter. It was only then John realised Sherlock was still in his dressing gown and hospital gown; distinct shivers wracked his frame constantly. It was no surprise, John was dressed properly in a warm jacket and he was still cold.

In frustration he grabbed the cigarettes and the lighter from his friend and growled. "You haven't smoked all of these have you?" John demanded. In response Sherlock shook his head and attempted to get the packet back, quite unsuccessfully. "Well where did you get them?" he asked, his voice gradually getting louder. He was pretty sure this was the first time Sherlock had smoked in quite a while but why he would have a half smoked pack and a lighter was beyond him.

"Nurse," Sherlock supplied unhelpfully.

"What?" John asked, now completely scandalised by the whole situation. "A nurse gave you cigarettes?"

"Not quite, don't be an idiot John," Sherlock replied sounding more like his old self, then it clicked into place.

"You stole them didn't you?" To this Sherlock smirked and John sighed long-sufferingly.

"Come on, give them back," Sherlock pleaded, once again trying to get them back off John but he was just too weak. Getting up to the roof itself had taken a lot out of him and he had been fighting ever since he got up there to stay awake. Now he was completely exhausted, not that he was going to tell anyone.

"No," John said exasperatedly, throwing them uncaringly over the side of the building too.

"What is the point in denying me the simple pleasures in life?" Sherlock asked in a tone which was meant to sound jovial but there was an underlying seriousness in his voice which led John to thinking that Sherlock's wasn't actually joking.

"Come on you idiot, you're talking like you're dying."

"That's because I am."

John's expression morphed from one of mild exasperation to complete horror in less than a second and a look came onto Sherlock's face which indicated he really had not meant to say that. Slowly John crouched down next to his friend who refused to look at him directly; instead he looked at the ground by the doctor's feet. "Sherlock," John said as gently as possible, "Have you received your diagnosis."

"It's nothing you need to worry about John," Sherlock said hoping that the doctor would leave him alone. If he told John then he would leave and he wanted to put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

"What the hell do you mean it's nothing I need to worry about?" John hissed, fighting the urge to yell and tell Sherlock what an idiot he was. He was also battling the guilt which was welling up in the pit of his stomach, he had gone back to the flat and as a result Sherlock had received a diagnosis, a bad diagnosis by the sounds of it, all by himself. "Of course it is something for me to worry about; you're my best friend Sherlock."

A strange look washed over Sherlock at that comment, it was one of utter confusion and it did not suit his features. Before John could say anything on the matter Lestrade, who had been observing proceedings from a distance, headed over to join the two men. "Perhaps it would be better to have this discussion indoors," Lestrade suggested kindly. Sherlock looked up at the older man, a hint of gratitude glinting in his eyes. John took a deep breath, nodded and stood up.

"I think that is a good idea, you're shivering like crazy Sherlock." Mentally slapping himself for not having done it before John slipped out of his jacket and placed it around Sherlock's shoulders, the man was freezing and John had ignored that in favour of trying to get information out of him. Some friend he was.

"Do you need help getting up?" Lestrade asked, watching as Sherlock subconsciously drew John's jacket closer around his thin, shaking frame.

"I'm not an invalid Lestrade," Sherlock replied bitterly. Neither John nor Lestrade argued with Sherlock's stubbornness, they merely stood back and allowed Sherlock to pull himself to his feet. In the end he did manage but it was a long and drawn out process, a few times he managed to get into a crouching position before his legs gave out under him and sent him crashing back onto the ground. Once they were back in the hospital room John was going to insist that he let him take a look, just to make sure he didn't cause too much damage.

In the end he did manage to get back onto his feet although his legs were shaking like those of a new born calf. Without asking him John went and ordered one of the security guards to get a wheelchair, they'd need to get him down the stairs first which would be a challenge but there was no way Sherlock would get further than that under his own steam even if he thought he could. Meanwhile Lestrade wrapped one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulders to keep him steady but Sherlock tried to fight against the support which almost resulted being cast to the ground once again. Luckily for him Lestrade had a firm grasp on him and prevented him from falling, after that he didn't have the energy to fight against the DI, it was a wonder he didn't fall asleep standing up.

Somehow John and Lestrade managed to get Sherlock down the stairs and into the chair. When Sherlock did not even bother to protest being sat down John checked to see if he was feeling alright only to discover that he was already asleep, his head drooped forward so his chin was resting against his chest. John chuckled, concern for his friend niggling in the back of his mind but he ignored it, he couldn't believe that his friend was dying until he heard the diagnosis himself, he just couldn't.

* * *

"What do you suppose is wrong with him?" Lestrade asked John. They were sitting in the small hospital room which smelt strongly of antiseptic. A nurse had just been through to check on Sherlock and had bandaged his knees which had been oozing blood and started going purple. But now they were alone and Sherlock was fast asleep, he'd slept through the whole procedure. The nurse had tried to remove John's jacket from the detective but even whilst in his fragile state and asleep he held onto the item of clothing with an iron grip. When she had eventually given up trying he rolled over, wrapping it tightly around his body. John didn't mind, after being out in the cold so long he really needed to get himself warmed up.

"I'm not sure; Sherlock seemed to know and he seemed to think that it was going to kill him. I'm not quite sure I trust him in that though, I wouldn't put it past him to delete the difference between the common cold and malaria." He chuckled to himself but it did sound slightly hysterical and Lestrade frowned.

"John, there is no point in denying the obvious; you know what Sherlock would think of that. You know that he doesn't have something as mundane as the common cold. A cold does not cause Sherlock to fall asleep in exhaustion after going up for a visit on the roof and you know it. There is something very wrong and you will need to accept that if you're going to be any help to him. In fact, we all need to." John nodded reluctantly, deep down he knew Lestrade was right but this was his best friend, he didn't want to think about the fact that he had survived chasing down all those criminals only to be defeated by a disease. And he couldn't help but feel the niggling hope that perhaps this was all simply a combination of Sherlock picking up a nasty flu virus and the neglectful way he treated his body. Lestrade didn't tell John that, despite what he said; that was what he was hoping too.

* * *

The two of them stayed silent, watching Sherlock as he slept because there was something peculiarly fascinating about it. He lay completely still, only twitching occasionally as he dreamt, with pale lips slightly parted. The worry that had almost imperceptibly been etched on his face recently was smoothed out and for once he looked relaxed, sick but relaxed. There was something almost childlike about him and it caused protectiveness to well up from within both Lestrade and John. They would help the admittedly strange man to recover, whatever it took.

Eventually Dr Janssen appeared, looking slightly haggard. John remembered the long shifts he used to have to work when he worked in hospitals and felt sorry for the man standing before him. He looked like he could use some sleep but then John supposed he probably looked in a similar condition. "Ah Dr Watson, Mr Lestrade; I am glad you're here. Sorry it took me so long to get down here, there was a bit of a crisis that I had to deal with. Will the other Mr Holmes be joining us?" At the mention of Mycroft John briefly considered texting him to say they had found Sherlock then decided not to, one of Mycroft's men had probably contacted him the moment they saw Sherlock smoking up on the rooftop.

John shook his head. "Not anytime soon anyway."

"Right, I must apologise for earlier. I came down here to fetch him for his bone marrow biopsy and he had gone. I informed…"

"Wait, wait, wait," John said, raising his hand and cutting the doctor off. "What do you mean bone marrow biopsy? He did get his diagnosis didn't he?" At this the doctor frowned.

"Sorry, I just assumed you got a chance to talk to Mr Holmes when you found him."

"I did, he said something about dying and then refused to say anything else on the matter. I couldn't be sure if he'd been diagnosed or if it was him overreacting. Well, what is it?" John demanded; if Sherlock was indeed dying he needed to know. And bone marrow biopsies were never a good sign.

"I'm sorry Dr Watson, I cannot tell you. He expressed a desire to tell you himself, at a stretch I could tell direct family but if I told you I would be violating the doctor-patient confidentiality."

John growled in the back of his throat, he knew that Dr Janssen was right but it didn't mean he had to like it. As a doctor he also had managed to narrow what was wrong to a few options by the symptoms and the procedures being done but dammit he had to know for sure. When Sherlock woke up he was going to get the information out of his friend.

"Mr Holmes?" Dr Janssen said loudly, attempting to make Sherlock wake up. Sherlock did not respond, instead he simply tucked John's jacket impossibly tighter around his body and moved away from the source of the noise. "Mr Holmes," Dr Janssen tried again, placing his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder, intending to shake him gently, but he didn't get that far, instead he elicited a very strong response. Instantly Sherlock's hand had a death grip on the doctor's arm, pushing him away, his eyes were wide open and his breathing heavy as if he had just been chasing after a criminal. But he hadn't been, up until a moment before he had been sound asleep, which could only mean one thing. Panic attack. Those were two words John never expected, or wanted, to use in relation to Sherlock Holmes. But why would he be having a panic attack, Sherlock Holmes did not get scared let alone panic.

Slowly Sherlock pushed himself up from where he was lying, making sure Dr Janssen remained an arm's length away from him. His breathing was still heavy and his complexion ashen. Gone was the relaxed expression he bore when asleep and replaced by one which screamed anxiety to those who knew him. "What do you want?" he hissed, eyes darting about as he tried to make deductions. Deductions always calmed him down but his panic was marring his thought process and damn it, why couldn't he just think?

"I need to do the bone marrow biopsy Mr Holmes," he heard someone say in the background but he didn't care, why couldn't people just leave him alone? He felt lightheaded. Subconsciously he drew the jacket, which had slipped off his shoulders, back up. It smelt like John, he liked John; John was nice to him. But John was there watching him panic, John couldn't know what was wrong because then he would leave. Reluctantly Sherlock opened his eyes, having not realised he had closed them, and looked up to meet the concerned eyes of his best friend. He took a deep breath, forcing his breathing into a more regular pattern and almost instantly the dizzy feeling abated.

"I'll just give you a minute Mr Holmes, and I do mean a minute this time." The doctor left and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief; he didn't particularly dislike the man but ever since he was a child he'd had an inherent distrust of doctors, John was the exception to the rule. "Are you alright mate?" Lestrade asked worriedly, taking a step forward then thinking better of it considering the display he had just seen.

"I'm fine," he replied leaving no room for discussion. "He just caught me by surprise."

"Mhmm," Lestrade replied incredulously, it was obvious he did not believe the young man but he didn't say anything and that was fine with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, tell me what's wrong," John ordered.

"I told you, he caught me by surprise," Sherlock replied whilst trying to suppress a yawn. John glared.

"That is not what I mean and you know it," he said calmly, only a hint of the frustration he was feeling played at the edges of his tone. Sherlock sighed; John just was not going to drop this.

"I told you this earlier too, it's nothing, really."

"I don't think so, don't you dare give me that crap. Receiving a bone marrow biopsy does not constitute 'nothing' so tell me, what is wrong?"

Despite trying not to Sherlock flinched away from John's anger. He hadn't quite reached the point of shouting because Lestrade elbowed him in the side when his voice got too loud. He hadn't realised how loudly he had been speaking and he felt sparks of guilt, once again, in the pit of his stomach. There was nobody on earth that could make him feel guilty like Sherlock Holmes could. Honestly he hadn't meant to get angry at the man but he was sleep deprived and worried and he wished that his best friend would trust him enough to open up to him and tell him what was wrong. What did he think would happen, that he'd leave? Knowing the idiot that was probably exactly what he thought.

Sherlock looked at John hesitantly; he supposed John would find out at some point, despite what he said the doctor wasn't a complete idiot. "Fine," he replied in frustration. "It's leukaemia John, I have leukaemia." It was at that moment Dr Janssen and a nurse entered the room and ignored the two speechless men, who were desperately trying to process the news they had just received, and instead moved to Sherlock's side.

"Are you ready Mr Holmes?" Dr Janssen asked and Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. He could feel anxiety washing over him like a wave, he felt like he might be sick. "We'll have him back in a few hours," he heard Dr Janssen say. "Are you alright Dr Watson?" he inquired, in his opinion the man looked a little paler than usual. John shook his head. "Er, yeah, um, I'm fine."

"Alright. Go home and get some rest, we won't have the results until about noon tomorrow so you might as well go. You look exhausted. That goes for you too Mr Lestrade."

Sherlock felt the small shudders through the bed as the breaks were taken off and he took a deep calming breath. Someone squeezed his hand with theirs; the hand was slightly rough and calloused. John, it was John, and for once he didn't move away from the touch. As quickly as the contact was made, however, it was gone, and Sherlock felt inexplicably alone as he was wheeled out the door.


End file.
